


don't write me off (just yet)

by PanBoleyn



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music and Lyrics (2007) Fusion, Multi, Past Eliot/Mike, Past Quentin/Alice and Quentin/Poppy, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26562274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanBoleyn/pseuds/PanBoleyn
Summary: Eliot Waugh has a problem. His manager and best friend Margo Hanson has lined up a duet for him to save his flagging music career... but he has to come up with the song, and Eliot can't write lyrics to save his life. Enter Quentin Coldwater, bookstore part-owner, temp plant boy... and born lyricist.As Quentin, Eliot, and Margo work to get the song ready, music isn't all they're building together.
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Quentin Coldwater & Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater/Margo Hanson/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 35
Kudos: 57
Collections: Magicians Happy Ever After





	1. looking for someone to shed some light

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Don't Write Me Off (Just Yet) [Art]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26563573) by [ThoughtsThatAreWeird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThoughtsThatAreWeird/pseuds/ThoughtsThatAreWeird). 



> I'm so excited to finally post! As ever, I hope this story finds you well. I think the only warning for this one is brief discussion of Quentin's depression, but if I missed something, please let me know. 
> 
> Music and Lyrics is one of my favorite movies and I was really into the idea of adapting it for Magicians. :D
> 
> A big thanks to Alisa, my artist, for the adorable art, and to Maii both as beta/cheerleader and the mod of this event. :)

“Really, Bambi? Celebrity boxing? Come on, can’t you get me The Masked Singer, if not Dancing With the Stars? What about a Voice guest coach, surely I’m not that washed up yet,” Eliot says, leaning back in his chair with a mimosa in one hand. “Me in a boxing ring is just asking for a disaster and we both know it.” 

“Yeah, well, if you can’t get your shit together it’s all there’s gonna be, El,” Margo says, brutally frank as ever, perching on their breakfast bar. Some might say it’s a terrible idea to live with one’s manager, but Eliot Waugh and Margo Hanson have been all but inseparable ever since meeting on a Greyhound bus to Los Angeles. And while even now they could afford to have their own places, it’s better this way. “But there is one thing, if you’re willing to accept a favor.” 

“At this point, I will take anything that doesn’t descend into punching,” Eliot says, setting his drink down in order to more effectively sprawl across the chair. “What is it?” 

“Remember Kady Orloff-Diaz?” Margo asks, and Eliot rolls his eyes. How can he forget Kady? Back in the day, they’d been up and coming together, her running solo and him still one-half of The Enchanters with Mike… but to think of Mike is never a good idea, so he tries to shove aside the memories of singing on stage together before falling into bed together. 

Never mind. Kady. She’s done amazingly well for herself, Eliot knows; the indie rock genre isn’t really to his taste, but he appreciates talent. He also appreciates the gorgeous image she makes with her boyfriend Penny Adiyodi, who used to be her drummer and then took over manager because Zelda, the oddly stuffy older woman who had been managing Kady, was an utter disaster.

“What about Kady?” he asks. 

“She’s offering you a song.” 

Eliot sits up. “Say what now?”

“She’s got this new album of duets coming out, it’s a genre mix deal,” Margo explains. “And she remembers us, thought she’d make the offer. And, she wants to perform the song with you during her New York concert, which will get you some much-needed recognition  _ off  _ the cover singer circuit.”

“Hey, covers have been saving my life so far,” Eliot points out mildly. And it’s true. There’s nothing quite like singing one’s own work, of course - or, rather, half one’s own work - but since Mike quit the duo to go solo, cover songs have netted Eliot a reasonable following online and on small tours. It’s not ideal but it’s still performing.

He keeps telling himself that as the live gigs dry up - online is great still, but not the best moneymaker. Something about the ad revenue not being as good online as it was in the print days - his little brother Patrick, the only member of his family he can stand at all, is a journalist in Seattle, and according to him, that’s why journalism jobs are failing too. But whatever, the point is, Eliot isn’t exactly in trouble yet. But he’s heading there, and he knows it. 

Still, this all sounds too good to be true. “Margo, what’s the catch?” 

“All the duets are new songs,” Margo says, “to be written by the guest singer. In this case, you.” 

And there it is. “Bambi, we both know I can’t do lyrics.” It’s the whole reason he’d needed Mike in the first place. It’s the whole reason his own attempt at a solo album had crashed and burned. “And neither can you,” he adds, because while she’s also his best girl for sound mixing - he’d never be able to turn raw demo songs into the final product without her - she is possibly worse at lyrics than he is. 

Which is hard to do. Eliot, for all that he can spin melody out of the slightest auditory inspiration, cannot do lyrics at all. He tried, and the result was an album so bad that the only place one can still find a copy is buried amongst Patrick’s extensive CD collection. 

“I know,” Margo says. “That’s why I’m in the process of hiring you a lyricist.” 

Eliot makes a face. He hates working with outsiders. It had been one of the upsides to working with Mike, because they knew each other. In hindsight, Eliot has realized he knew only what Mike wanted him to see, but the point remains. Working with someone for a one-off is… not promising, but Margo’s right. If this can get him some fresh attention, then he just might be able to pull off a true comeback. And for that, he’ll need a lyricist anyway, so maybe he’ll get lucky this time? 

Before he can say anything, the doorbell rings. “Oh, plant-watering time,” he says instead, getting up to go let Amanda in. Only it’s not Amanda, their usual plant girl, at the door. Instead there is a guy with light brown hair pulled back in a messy bun, big brown eyes in an unfairly pretty face, clutching a watering can to his chest. 

“Uh, hi, I’m Quentin, Amanda’s my cousin? She broke her leg, so she asked me to cover her plant watering people. She was supposed to call you…” 

“Well, she didn’t, but that’s all right,” Eliot says. “What’s your name?” 

“Quentin. Quentin Coldwater.” 

“Quentin Coldwater?” Eliot repeats, incredulous, giving him a once-over. Almost painfully adorable, even with his hair hanging in front of his face and the tragic jeans and blue t-shirt over a white long-sleeved shirt - the design is a grey owl on top of a crossed pair of some kind of medieval weapon. Some nerdy thing, Eliot decides, but the blue looks good on him. The layers are unfortunate, though. They hide too much, he’s certain of it.

“Um, yes, that - that’s my name,” Quentin says awkwardly. “Where’s your gardening can?”

Oh God, he’s adorable. Amanda is very nice - and pretty enough to be eye candy for Margo - but her… What did he say? Oh, right, cousin. He is more than pretty enough for Eliot to enjoy the view. “Under the sink,” he says, waving a lazy hand in the relevant direction, watching Quentin Coldwater’s eyes follow the movement. 

“Hey. Pay attention,” Margo says, snapping her fingers in front of Eliot’s face. Eliot jumps, turning back to face her. 

“Of course, Bambi. What were you saying?”

“I was saying, I’m in the process of hiring you a lyricist. I’ve got some guy, his name is Sebastian Rupert, which is a weird as shit name, I’m sure it’s a pseudonym but why the fuck a lyricist needs one I can’t tell you. Anyway, he’s worked with Kady before so that seems like a good place to start. He also wrote that song you and Mike did that the label really wanted you to put on, that bonus track, remember?” 

Eliot does. It’s one of the few times Margo and Mike had been in agreement - they didn’t like the idea of using someone else’s song, and Eliot had felt the same way. But it was only their second album, and they didn’t have the clout to refuse it. That’s how it goes sometimes. Actually, the song hadn’t been too bad, a little weird and ill-fitting compared to their own stuff, but tolerable. So if Eliot has to have a one-off lyricist, someone whose work he’s sung before isn’t the worst deal in town.

“All right. Set up our trial session.” 

“Trial session? Eliot, how many lyricists do you think I can line up here?” Margo demands, hands on her hips. Eliot gives her his best lazy smirk, which only gets him an even worse glare.

“I think you know me well enough to have at least one backup, Bambi, just in case.” 

Not the worst deal in town, Eliot muses even as Margo lectures him. She’s done it before, and he knows he can safely tune it out. One song, and maybe he’ll - they’ll - be a success again. Definitely not the worst deal. 

Neither is having a temp plant boy, at least one as pretty as Quentin Coldwater. As far as Eliot’s concerned things are starting to look up, and he is definitely not going to complain about that. Now he just has to crank out one song, and he’ll be on his way again. 

Just one song. With a lyricist he’s never met. But he trusts Margo, so this is going to work. It’s got to work, frankly.

  
  


<><><>

  
  


Quentin thinks he honestly might die. When he’d agreed to cover Amanda’s plant watering clients, he’d had no idea one of them was Eliot Waugh. Amanda had only ever talked about Margo, and while everyone who’d been any kind of fan of The Enchanters knew about Margo Hanson, just the first name hadn’t been nearly warning enough. 

And, oh God, he’s even more unfairly beautiful in person,  _ how _ . 

As soon as he leaves, he texts Julia.  **[i am going to KILL amanda]**

He’s just settling into his seat on the bus when his phone buzzes with a notification, and he pulls it out.  **[why are you going to kill your cousin?]**

**[because one of her plant customers is ELIOT WAUGH and she didn’t MENTION THIS]**

**[does she even know about your ridiculous high school crush?]**

Quentin frowns down at his screen. Actually, that’s kind of a valid point. He likes Amanda more than most of his cousins - they don’t have much in common, but they’re the same age when all the others are either significantly older or younger. It sort of led to them banding together at family events by default. 

**[i don’t know. That’s not the point. What kind of best friend are you, julia wicker-quinn, you’re supposed to be on my side! :P]**

He’s still proud of himself, sometimes, that he can use married names for Julia and Alice. Maybe it should still sting, that the best friend he’d nursed a crush on for years and his first love actually found their forever partners in each other, but… It did, of course, for quite a while — and the less said about some of the bad choices it led him to, the better — but these days it’s more a case of being surprised that he actually got over it. He never thought he would, after all. 

But he’s glad he did, because Julia is his oldest and best friend. As for Alice, once they stopped trying to date and got over the fallout of that miscalculation, it turned out they make great friends too. So if Quentin hadn’t been able to get over it, he’d have lost two of the best things in his life. Also, more pragmatically, he wouldn’t have a job, seeing as how the three of them run their bookstore together. 

The Book Nook is where he’s headed now - he has some paperwork to do. But he’s barely made a dent in it when his office door bangs open. Quentin sighs, but in all honesty he’s not actually surprised. “Hello, Julia,” he says, raising his eyebrows at her. “I thought you were on floor duty today?” 

“Shut up, Coldwater, and tell me what happened!” 

“I… can’t actually do both of those things, you have to pick one,” Quentin points out dryly, earning himself a swat on the back of the head. “Hey, coworker abuse!” 

“I’ll show you coworker abuse, you brat. Any court in the land would obviously agree that I was provoked. So what happened?!”

Quentin rolls his eyes. “Not much, really. I mean, what’s he gonna say to the substitute plant guy? Especially when his unfairly stunning manager is there and she’s also definitely not the sort of person you ignore, I could tell that right away. This is real life, not a bad porno.” 

“You wish it wasn’t though,” Julia says slyly. 

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” Quentin says, and determinedly goes back to his paperwork even though Julia is laughing at him. 

He assumes that’s the end of it, except that the next two times he’s there to water the plants, it seems like Eliot is interviewing for a new lyricist. Which makes sense, given the bits of conversation with his manager that Quentin overheard the first time he was here. Unfortunately, as far as Quentin can tell, the search does not seem to be going well.

The first time he’s there, the would-be lyricist in question is some guy with prematurely grey hair and a fondness for black leather. Quentin doesn’t catch his name, but he and Eliot don’t get far before Eliot stops. “OK, I know Kady’s got the punk rock shit going, but I don’t think this ghostly love song concept you have going is gonna work for me at all. Breaking open the Underworld sounds mystical and poetic and all, but it doesn’t match Kady’s style or mine. Which is weird, because you’ve worked with her and written a song I sang before.”

Quentin is on his way out when he overhears this, and from what he heard of the song, he thinks Eliot’s right. It was just obvious in his voice that he wasn’t clicking with the words, or at least it was for someone like Quentin who still has way too many Enchanters’ songs memorized. And if he keeps this up he’s going to start sounding like a creepy stalker, which is unacceptable even if it’s kept entirely in his own head.

So he just gets out of there. 

The third time he comes over, the lyricist hopeful is a younger guy, maybe about Quentin and Eliot’s own age. His hair is blond and kinda floppy, but what Quentin really notices is the shirt that looks like it was made out of someone’s drapes. Now, Quentin is far from a fashion plate himself at the best of times, and today he’s wearing worn black jeans and a t-shirt with the Stark direwolf on it, but even he is kind of horrified by drape shirts. 

That probably isn’t an actual term.

But anyway, Eliot and the other guy — Charlton? Maybe? Quentin isn’t sure and doesn’t care — are going back and forth about the lyrics. This time, funnily enough, the problem is the opposite. Charlton is all bubblegum pop as opposed to Leather Dude’s weird obsession with Greek mythology, which isn’t any better a fit for Eliot’s sharper-edged, almost fae style or Kady’s punk rock vibes. 

(What? Julia likes a little of Kady’s stuff.)

Charlton is reciting his last line, and Eliot doesn’t look impressed. Quentin is so busy trying to not look like he’s eavesdropping that when his brain does the thing it sometimes does when writing and just clicks, he isn’t paying close enough attention before the made-up next line in his head is spilling out of his mouth. 

Oh shit. 

“What was that?” Eliot asks sharply. 

“Um, nothing, sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt,” Quentin stammers, turning back to the last plant. Fuck. Fuck. He needs to get out of here before he makes an even bigger fool of himself. “I wasn’t paying attention, it just kinda happened. Ignore me.” Shit, what the hell did he do? This is why he needs a better brain to mouth filter, no matter what his therapist says about accepting himself as he is. 

“No, hang on, what comes next?” Eliot prompts, and Quentin’s stupid traitor brain spits out the next two lines. What the fuck, he doesn’t even write lyrics, except when he occasionally has to create a “song” for a story he’s writing. But he does write poetry, sometimes, and lyrics are just poetry meant to go with a melody, right?

So he recites the words tumbling around in his head, and his reward is a blinding grin from Eliot Waugh that sends his pulse racing. Oh God, he is in  _ so much trouble _ here, but he used to daydream about that smile. Getting it turned his way for real, just one time, is totally worth it, right? It doesn’t have to mean anything serious. Just one cool moment, that’s all.

Eliot turns back to his piano and sings Quentin’s three lyrics, already with a new melody like he’s testing them out. “That’s not my lyric,” Charlton says, scowling, and Eliot shrugs. 

“You’re very good at what you do, but what you do is not what I do. I’m sorry but I really don’t think this is going to work out.”

“Whatever.” Charlton rolls his eyes and walks out the door, leaving Quentin to stare at Eliot, completely at a loss. Holy shit, what did he just do? What the hell is going on here, and why is Eliot giving him that strange, thoughtful little smile? Why does it feel like he’s weighing Quentin for something?

“I’m really sorry, I never meant to interfere,” he starts to say, but Eliot cuts him off. 

“No, no, believe me, interference is exactly what I needed, Quentin. This has been a complete disaster from start to finish. Bambi means well, and usually she is terrifyingly good at everything, but finding me a lyricist is clearly the exception that proves the rule. Which I should have known, because it’s never worked before. We’ve tried, because I’m crappy at lyrics, but no luck.” 

He must notice Quentin’s puzzled face, because Eliot adds, “Margo Hanson. She was here the first time you came by - I call her Bambi, but for your safety I should warn you no one else ever, ever calls her that.” 

“Uh… actually Amanda should be back next time you need your plants watered,” Quentin says uncertainly. “So I, uh. I probably won’t need the warning.” 

“Hm.” Eliot gets up from the piano bench and hops up to sit on the piano instead. “I’m not so sure about that. So tell me, Quentin. Ever do any writing?” 

What? Oh, shit. What has Quentin’s big mouth and messy brain gotten him into this time? “Uh, um. I mean, well. Everyone’s done some writing. But I’m not a professional, so it’s really nothing to, you know. To talk about.”

“Have you ever done lyrics?” Eliot asks, and oh holy fuck, this has definitely gotten out of hand. Quentin tries very hard not to look entirely like a deer in headlights as he searches frantically for some kind of answer. 

“No, um. I write fanfiction sometimes, that’s kind of all I’ve ever done.” Which is not entirely true, but he’s trying to stop this sudden turn of events, and admitting to his original short stories and especially poetry seems like the kind of thing that will do the opposite of that. “Seriously, I don’t think -” 

“I do. I think you might be exactly what I need. Write a song with me. You’ve already started it, just keep going.” 

“I - I really can’t. I’m so sorry,” Quentin says, hurrying to the kitchen where he can dump out the leftover water and put the can back where it belongs. “Amanda will be back next time and she is way less disruptive than me. Which of course you know already because she’s been your plant girl for years. Um, anyway. Again. I’m really really sorry, I have to go.” 

He scrambles for the door but Eliot’s voice stops him dead. “Quentin.” 

Just his name, nothing but that, and Quentin freezes, looking up at Eliot as he approaches. He’s so tall, it isn’t fair. “Look. I have a show tonight at this little club called The Armory. Ever heard of it?” 

Quentin has, actually. His old roommate Brian had a boyfriend who bartended there. He hasn’t thought about the place - or Brian and his English boyfriend Nigel - in years, last he knew they were moving out to San Francisco together. They’re probably still in their eternal honeymoon phase, though, he’s sure - 

And there’s his brain going off on totally irrelevant tangents again, which is more or less what got him into this mess, isn’t it? “Yeah, I’ve been there,” he says warily. 

“Great, so you know where it is. Come tonight, just watch my show and think about it, OK? Talk to a friend or a girlfriend -” 

“No girlfriend,” Quentin says inanely, and he’s not sure, but he thinks Eliot’s gaze just sharpened. 

“Boyfriend?” 

“Um. No. Neither, though either is an option - oh my God, sorry, you don’t need to know that, wow,” Quentin says, mentally kicking himself. 

“Hm. Waiting on the judge’s ruling there,” Eliot says, that sharp look still in his eyes. “Anyway. Talk to whoever you need to, bring a friend along tonight. Just don’t turn me down before you give it some thought, OK?” 

And, apparently, enough of Quentin’s teenage crush is still alive and well — no shit, he can hear both Julia and Alice saying — that he can’t say no to Eliot. Not outright, anyway. “All right, I’ll think about it,” he says. “But I really do have to go, my other job starts soon.” Technically true, although as the owners, he, Julia, and Alice more or less make their own hours. 

“Of course. See you tonight.” 

Quentin manages to get to the sidewalk before he calls Julia. Before she can say more than hello, he blurts out, “I got myself into so much trouble, and also you’re coming with me to a show tonight.”

He’s definitely going to need moral support to get out of this one.

<><><>

“I’m sorry, you turned down yet another  _ professional _ lyricist and then proceeded to try and hire your plant boy? Not even your actual plant boy! He’s a temp! Eliot, what the fuck are you thinking?!”

Margo adores Eliot. Truly, she does. They understand each other better than anyone else in the world. But there are times he does things that even she is completely at a loss to explain. This latest scheme of his definitely falls under that category.

“Margo, look. Sebastian and Charlton were disasters. I only have seven days — we only have seven days. This Quentin Coldwater guy, he just went right for it. Hang on, I’ll show you.” Eliot sits at the piano and plays a tune way too peppy for either him or Kady, and the lyrics he sings are worse. “That is what Charlton came up with. Now, from that last line, we have…” 

He slows down the tempo of the music, singing three new lines that do indeed connect to what was already done, but even then they sound a lot more like something Eliot would do. Not much like something Kady would do, but that can always be adjusted. Margo sighs, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “And this Quentin Coldwater guy — wow, what a name, did his parents hate him? — just spat these out, no problem, no questions asked?” 

Eliot laughs. “I wouldn’t say no problem, he panicked as soon as he realized what he’d done, but more or less, yeah. Bambi, I mean it. This guy’s a natural.” 

“And you think he’s hot.” He had been kinda cute, in a bumbling awkward sort of way. More Eliot’s usual type than hers — Margo has been known to go for nervy nerds, but of the more snippy sharp-edged type than the awkward rambling type. But she can appreciate a pretty face. 

“And I think he’s hot, but I solemnly swear to behave myself if we can recruit him, because I need a lyricist more than I need a one night stand. No promises after the song wraps, though.”

Margo rolls her eyes, but then the full point of that comment hits her. “Wait, what? If? I thought he said yes.” 

“Er, well, no. Not yet. But I did tell him to come by The Armory for my show tonight. I figure I can convince him afterwards, and maybe you can help?”

“Oh, of course. Typical, you need me to close the deal,” Margo says, although she’s mostly pretending to be annoyed. 

Eliot gives her his most innocent smile, which makes her grab a pillow off the couch to throw at his head. “Bambi, that wasn’t very nice. But you always close the deal, that’s why you’re the best friend and manager I could have.” 

“You know, if I didn’t know you’re laying it on thick as a joke, I’d wonder how you ever charm anyone, that was so unconvincing,” Margo says, unimpressed. “But fine. Let me give Marina a call, see what I can dig up on this guy. We might need more information to win him over.” 

Marina, as ever, comes through with the goods at lightning speed — that’s the reason Margo still hires her, even though she has the personality of a pit viper. She’s also occasionally been good in bed, but owing to the personality thing that hasn’t happened in a while. Supposedly Marina is trying to clean up her act for her new girlfriend, which is one of those things Margo will believe when she sees it and also when pigs fly. But she doesn’t need to like Marina to employ her. 

When Margo reads the email, she has to laugh at some of the information. Oh, this is going to be  _ juicy _ if they need to use it, but she’s going to tell Eliot to hold back the full details unless absolutely necessary. She’d rather wait on the reveal for some of it. 

That night, spotting Quentin Coldwater at The Armory is surprisingly easy. He’s dressed up a little from the t-shirt layers and worn-out blue jeans of the last time she saw him, in a dark grey button down and black jeans that at least aren’t faded. His hair is loose instead of messily pulled back, and OK, she can see a little more of what Eliot is thinking. 

The cute brunette next to him might put paid to Eliot’s other plans, though, that much is for sure. Or so Margo thinks until she slides into the booth across from them and spots the delicate golden wedding ring on Brunette’s finger, and the definite lack of one on Quentin’s left hand where he’s got his fingers wrapped around his glass. Cider rather than beer, it looks like, which makes sense because The Armory has an amazing house cider. Brunette has a pink cocktail, and with Margo’s own red wine glass sat on the table the drinks make as weird a set as she imagines the three of them do. 

“Uh… Julia, this is, um, Margo - I’m really sorry, Eliot said your last name but I…” Quentin says, trying to be polite but botching it a little. 

Margo shrugs, watching Quentin’s eyes dart to the way it makes her hair fall across her shoulders. Hmm. Interesting. Boy can appreciate her too — she saw the way he stared when Eliot first opened the door, after all. Always fun. “Margo Hanson, I’m Eliot Waugh’s manager, roommate, best friend — I basically keep his life running.” 

“Julia Wicker-Quinn, I know exactly how that feels,” Brunette — sorry, Julia Wicker-Quinn — says with a smirk, offering her hand to shake. “So Quentin says we’re here for a recruitment pitch?” 

“I’m here for a recruitment pitch, you’re here to back me up,” Quentin corrects, but before any of them can say anything about that, the music starts, lights dimming everywhere except at the stage. 

Margo has always liked seeing Eliot perform. He’s good at it — he lights up a fucking stage. Even a little one like this. But still, it fucking kills her to see him doing this so small scale, with other people’s songs. He should be singing songs he helped create, words written for his melodies. Like it used to be, only better because that asshole Mike is out of the picture. If Quentin here can do that for him, well… She’s willing to run with it. 

Quentin is watching Eliot, practically spellbound, and Margo thinks it’s in the bag. But no such luck. “So, Eliot told me all about the way you pulled lyrics out of nowhere today,” Margo says as the lights come back up to their usual level. “Normally, I’d say he’s crazy to want to bring in an amateur, but it sounds like something clicked between you two without anyone ever knowing about it. One job, one song, we need it in six days and Eliot can’t do it on his own. I can’t help him, we’re both completely useless when it comes to lyrics. You were able to come up with three without thinking while watering plants. You’re a natural. So what do you say?”

Quentin hesitates, but then looks at Julia, who is frowning and eyeing Margo like she suspects a scam. Quentin sighs and shakes his head. “I’m really sorry. But like I told Eliot, I’m not a lyricist. I’m just a guy who works at a bookstore and has done a little writing as a hobby. I should have kept my mouth shut today. I’m really sorry but I can’t help you.” 

As for Eliot, when he comes over to join them he doesn’t even get a chance to make the argument because Julia cuts in, “Sorry, Q can’t help you. The invite was really nice of you, but we have to go now.” 

“Wait, come on -” Eliot starts, but Julia is towing Quentin away before he can finish talking. Eliot frowns and turns toward Margo. “I get the sense she doesn’t approve?” 

“She was perfectly nice earlier, but apparently not.” Margo frowns. “OK, so that was a bust, but I know where he works, so tomorrow you’re just going to have to go there and pull out the big guns. You’re the one he knows, so you’re gonna have to close this one yourself, El.” 

Of course, he’ll do it with the information she got for him, through Marina, but even so.

  
  


<><><>

  
  


Eliot finds his way to the bookstore Quentin works at the next morning, trying not to feel too much like a stalker. The place is called The Book Nook, which is somehow a cheesy enough name to turn itself right back around and be adorable instead. That in itself kind of impresses Eliot — it suggests someone was clever enough to know exactly where that line is. 

Inside, the place lives up to its name. The bookshelves are all wood, stained a warm golden shade, and there’s little reading corners set up all over the place. The chairs look squashy and comfortable, sort of like Starbucks chairs only less likely to eat you alive. Eliot hates those chairs, he’s convinced that they are designed to make you realize only when it’s too late that you’ve sunk too far to reach your coffee. 

The place is lit well, but softly. There are little beanbag stuffed animals placed here and there on the shelves, cats and rabbits and little birds. A lot of mythical creatures, dragons and winged horses, unicorns and mermaids. 

All in all, it just feels cozy. 

And when he finally spots Quentin, well. He’d planned to just corner the guy, talk at him until he convinced him to do the song. But he can’t exactly interrupt story time, can he? Quentin is sitting there with a book in hand, but he apparently already knows it well enough he doesn’t have to read all of it off the page. The book is in his lap, but he looks up a lot, telling the story with expansive hand gestures. Eliot thinks there might be voices too, but from this side of the room he can’t quite hear to confirm that.

“Are you stalking Quentin now?” asks a sharp voice from behind him. Eliot turns to find himself facing a very unimpressed woman, blond with very sharp blue eyes behind black framed glasses. 

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Eliot says, turning on the charm with a smile as he offers his hand. “I’m Eliot Waugh.” 

“Alice Wicker-Quinn,” says the blonde, ignoring Eliot’s hand. “And I know who you are, Quentin and my brother both used to have posters of you. I didn’t ask who you were, I asked if you were stalking Quentin. He and Julia told me all about your offer, and he turned you down because it was obviously a scam. So why don’t you just leave him alone instead of showing up at his job?”

Oh, another dragon at the gate. Fitting, given all the mythical creatures. Now that he’s looking around, there’s framed colored drawings on the walls too. He thinks they might be scenes from some of the books, and wonders idly who did the art, and if they have copyright for those. But enough of them are also fantasy themed that ‘dragon’ really is the only word for either of Quentin’s protective lady friends. 

Also, a scam? What the fuck?

“Look,” he says. “This is my last attempt to make my case, I promise. If Quentin tells me no again, I will leave him alone. Scout’s honor.” Eliot, unfortunately, actually was a Boy Scout for a while. He does not like to think about that particular life experience often. “But the truth, Ms. Wicker-Quinn, is that I need his help, so I am going to try one last time. I promise, my intentions may be a little mercenary in the sense that I would really like to kickstart my career, but they are also harmless and more or less honorable. I am not scamming anyone. I might be down on my luck, but I’m not that kind of shitty, OK?”

Alice raises her eyebrows. “Oh, this is going to be interesting if he says yes,” she mutters, and walks away shaking her head. Eliot doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, exactly, but she isn’t kicking him out. She’s letting him stay and try one more time to convince Quentin, which means he’s going to take this one as a win. 

So Eliot finds a chair to sit in where he can still keep an eye on Quentin with the group of kids. He doesn’t seem to be reading now, in fact unless Eliot is much mistaken he’s… Teaching them card tricks? 

Now that is unexpected. And strangely endearing. Eliot has no real opinion on children, and a person being good with children is not a trait he’s ever considered in either a positive or negative light. But watching Quentin with this little group on their story time rug, Eliot finds himself thinking that this is adorable. Just like he thought when he first saw his new temporary plant boy at his door. Unfortunately, now that he wants to recruit said plant boy, he has to behave. He did promise Margo, and he needs Quentin’s writing skills more than he needs to discover if he has… other skills. 

But it really is a damned shame, isn’t it?

When the kids are collected by their chaperone to go browse the shelves, Quentin looks up and sees Eliot. He freezes for a moment, then runs a hand through his hair and makes his way over, sitting in the chair across from Eliot’s. “I did tell you, I really can’t help you. I’m not a writer, not really. I sell books, and I do reading hour for the local schools, but that is not the same thing.” 

And that right there is the opening Eliot needed. “Except that you are a writer,” he says triumphantly. “You are a writer when you post short stories and poetry to various online literary magazines under the name Q Makepeace, or when you write fanfiction on Archive of our Own under the pen name FillorianKnight.” 

Quentin stares, then sputters. “I - I - how the fuck do you know that?” 

Eliot shrugs. “Margo knows a chick. Redhead named Marina. Scary as hell, and she should never be invited to parties, but she knows her shit and can find basically anybody. Anyway, not the point.” 

“Uh, I kinda think that is the point given no one is supposed to be able to connect my actual self to either of my online selves,” Quentin objects. 

“OK, yes, I admit it’s a little over the top, but what I am trying to say here is that you’re good. You are really good, and you were a huge improvement over Charlton with a few lines off the top of your head. Lines you were barely thinking about saying! Now, OK, I could be wrong, but I really don’t think I am. I think you might be a born lyricist. And I only have six days left to put this song together, and I am honestly desperate. Please, Quentin Coldwater, you’re my only hope.” 

Quentin blinks. “Did you use that quote to win me over because I was wearing a Star Wars shirt the last time I came over to water your plants?” 

“Maybe a little. Did it work?” 

Quentin sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh. OK, full disclosure, I had a huge, huge crush on you in high school, I promise I would never make this weird but I kinda feel bad not telling you.” 

“I am flattered, and nothing will be weird,” Eliot promises. He decides that it would not help his case to tell Quentin that he’s adorable, and this revelation does absolutely nothing to diminish that fact. Quite the opposite, actually. “So, do we have a deal?” 

Quentin takes a deep breath, then nods. “Yeah. OK. We have a deal.”

Quentin has some paperwork to take care of, so Eliot wanders the bookstore while he waits. He’s not much for reading as recreation — books are tools, when necessary, and that’s as far as it goes. Eliot does like audiobooks though, likes having something to listen to when doing things around the house. He loves music, but he often finds himself avoiding it when doing things like what cleanup their twice-a-week housekeeper doesn’t get to. Something about chores seems to kickstart his creativity, and listening to other people’s music is the opposite of helpful at such times. 

But he hates silence, so he took to audiobooks instead. And The Book Nook has quite a selection — which is weird, because Eliot always kind of thought that people listened to audiobooks by streaming them now, not on CDs. Then again, by that same token, e-books are popular now, but this is still a proper bookstore. 

He’s still browsing the audiobook titles when Quentin comes down, looking nervous but determined. God, he really is cute, in his worn jeans and his nerdy t-shirts. Eliot has to behave himself because he needs this cute nerd, but it’s really fucking unfair. Still, he’s used to doing what he has to for the work by now, so he just walks with Quentin back to his apartment, where they settle in. 

“Now, the problem is, we can’t use the lyrics you came up with the other day, because they’re still based off of what Charlton was doing.” 

“Plagiarism is definitely a bad idea,” Quentin agrees with a faint smile, curling up in Eliot’s armchair with a notepad and pen. Eliot watches him in bewilderment for a moment, and then he really does just have to ask. 

“Are you a human pretzel? Because that does not look comfortable, I’ve gotta say.” 

Quentin laughs. “You are definitely not the first person to mention that. But for whatever reason, it’s comfortable for me. OK, so… we need to come up with a song that’s something you would sing, and also something Kady Orloff-Diaz would sing. What would you sing?” 

“Whatever gets me the job, honestly,” Eliot says, and means it. 

“Oh, that’s inspiring.” 

“At least I didn’t lie to you.” 

“There is that.” 

They get to work, and they stay working for hours. The sun is setting outside when Eliot’s brain just — stops. He sighs, getting up off the piano bench and flopping onto the couch. His fainting Victorian maiden impersonation, as Margo likes to call it. Quentin, for his part, gets up and stretches, his joints popping in a way that makes Eliot wince in sympathy.

Before either of them can say anything, though, Margo arrives with Chinese food. “Thank God,” Eliot says, falling on the beef and broccoli. Quentin finds sesame chicken and looks surprised - as he should be, because neither Eliot nor Margo like that. 

“Oh, I guessed right, cool,” Margo says with a grin. When Quentin looks up at her, confusion written all over his face, her grin turns into a sly smirk. “Nothing personal, honey, but I knew El here was gonna get his way as soon as he set his sights on recruiting you. He does that, it’s infuriating.” 

“She says that like she isn’t just the same,” Eliot says airily.

Dinner actually goes surprisingly easily. They swap stories, at least a few, Quentin talking about the bookshop he runs with his married friends. Eliot and Margo have a few wacky stories that are always good for some fun from their years together. They don’t need to get along, not for working on a single song, but Eliot finds himself really happy that they do. So far anyway.

But with dinner eaten, his brain is still refusing to engage music-wise, so Eliot sighs and gets up. “Come on. We’re going for a walk, I need inspiration,” he tells Quentin, who blinks. “And why are you washing your container?” 

“You don’t save yours?” Quentin asks blankly. 

“No,” Margo and Eliot say at the same time.

“Oh,” Quentin says sheepishly, throwing his container away instead, just like Eliot and Margo did. Eliot turns away to hide a smile, inexplicably charmed by Quentin’s bemusement. “So, a walk, sounds good,” he continues as he dries his hands. 

“Don’t look at me, I still have shit to do,” Margo says, waving them off. “Go, bond, have a meeting of the minds on the sidewalks of Manhattan. Then come back here and get back to work.”

“Always so sweet, Bambi,” Eliot drawls, and then he catches hold of Quentin’s wrist to tow him downstairs. At the front desk, Todd the doorman openly stares at them and Eliot waggles his fingers in a teasing wave. Todd lives in awe of him and Margo, which is either amusing or annoying depending on the day. 

They walk in silence at first, which is usually how Eliot likes it. It sounds like a cheesy kids’ movie thing to say, but the truth is, music really is all around. Sound is everywhere, after all, and with the right ear, even the most unpleasant sounds are a kind of music. The idea of them can trigger melody, or at least that’s how it works for him. 

Presumably it isn’t like that for everyone, but everyone isn’t a concern for Eliot. He knows what works for him, and that’s what matters. Still, when the ambient noise doesn’t spark an idea, Eliot decides to indulge his curiosity instead. “So, tell me more about your very protective friends, Quentin.” 

“You can call me Q,” Quentin says, looking up at him. “Alice and Julia? Well, Julia and I grew up together - we literally met in preschool - and we’ve been best friends that whole time. Got a little awkward when I spent most of high school and the start of college with a crush on her, but I got over it.” 

There’s an odd look on his face. “Actually, I got over it in part because I started dating Alice. But we… we were… the kind of couple that makes perfect sense on paper, you know? Prickly nerds who never had many friends, never quite knew how to handle social situations, more comfortable reading a book. But in practice it was… good for a while, then it was like all our sharp edges just cut at each other. So we broke up, and it was awkward but we were trying to stay friends. But then…” 

“I noticed their hyphenated names,” Eliot says mildly, already suspecting he can see where this is going. He imagines, briefly, how it might have felt if Mike had left him and started dating Margo. Impossible because both Margo and Mike had hated each other, of course. But still, the very idea, even this long after everything, hurts more than a little. 

“Ha. Yeah.” Quentin’s laugh is mirthless. “I mean, it’s been years since college, and they only got married last year. I was Julia’s best man, you know. By that point I could be with a clear conscience and a happy heart, or whatever it is people say about shit like that, but at the time I… It was kind of one of the worst things that ever happened to me? I was glad they were happy but the idea that I was so completely incapable of being what either of my most important people needed, except that they were what each other needed… Eventually I figured out — and therapy helped here, I have depression so I needed it anyway but Dr. Griffin was a godsend for this too. She helped me figure out that I could be something else they needed, as a friend instead. And I like seeing them happy. It just hurt like hell for a while.” 

He looks sad, even if just at the memories, and Eliot — he wants, suddenly, to tell Quentin that he’s not alone in this, that Eliot also knows the particular hell that is getting your heart broken. “I was dating Mike, you know,” he says, and watches Quentin’s pretty brown eyes go wide. It makes him laugh every bit as bleakly as Quentin did a moment ago. “Oh yeah. I know there have been rumors ever since I came out after he went solo, but he still plays the heterosexual stud so that’s all they are. You’re not gonna go tell the tabloids, are you?” 

“I — no, of course not!” Quentin says, indignant, and Eliot ruffles his hair. Which only gets him an even more indignant scowl. God, this boy is  _ unfairly  _ cute.

“I know. I was kidding. He broke up with me by quitting, you know. Didn’t give me a word of warning, just made the public announcement. And then I went to his apartment and demanded answers… and I caught him in bed with a woman. He likes women every bit as much as men and I knew that, but the only woman I’d have been willing to have with us is Margo and they hated each other.”

“You think that’s why…” Quentin says, and there’s something wary in his voice.

“Hmm? Oh, no. At the time I did think that must have been part of it but I’ve dated a couple other bi guys since and I figured out that’s not how it works, he was just a dick. And it’s easier for him to only date women and play straight, it works for his image, which is probably the main reason for it. Even if it’s not quite the fake out for him it was for me, you know? Anyway, I just meant… I get it. Heartbreak fucking sucks.” 

Quentin smiles, and this time the smile is fond, not sad. “I can punch him in the nose if I ever meet him? Although I’m not very good at punching so that won’t do much.” 

Eliot blinks, staring at Quentin for a moment, completely at a loss, and then he bursts out laughing. “Much as I’d like to see that, I’d rather not have to see you arrested, Q.” Quentin laughs too and that —

That right there, the sound of their laughter is —

Eliot flags down a cab. “I’ve got it, come on,” he says, jumping into the cab and tugging Quentin after him, his mind already half lost to the music again.

  
  


<><><>

  
  


Margo knows that twitchy look on Eliot’s face. Quentin grabbed a couple hours’ sleep on the couch, she can tell because he looks drowsy yet, still wrapped in the afghan that usually lives on the back of said couch. But Eliot has clearly not slept at all, the way he gets when the music is loud in his head, and now it’s reaching the stage where he can’t focus on the actual world. 

“Hey. Baby Q,” Margo says, just because she wants to see how he’ll react. She isn’t disappointed; when she says it, Quentin blushes like a tomato. It’s fun to watch. “You and me are going on a breakfast run. Right now.” 

“Oh, uh, I don’t —” He’s already looking at his notebook with an expression a little like Eliot’s when he needs to get his hands on piano keys or guitar strings. Great, Margo has two of them. Well, that’s all the more reason to take Quentin with her, because the idea of dealing with two sleep  _ and  _ food deprived creative types at the same time is the kind of thing her nightmares are made of. 

“We all need coffee, and Mama doesn’t like too much hangry in her living space. So let’s go, Coldwater.” 

He scrambles to his feet and gets his shoes back on pretty quickly, enough that Margo finds herself thinking idly,  _ good boy, we should keep this one. _ She turns the thought over in her head while Quentin brushes his teeth and Eliot hums and mutters over his musical notes. And — hmm. It’s only been a day, so far, but the thing is, she remembers Mike. She remembers Eliot going fucking starry-eyed over Mike. And it had been fine, it had been cool, because they needed a lyricist and Mike was a decent one. Good even, when he was on his game, though never as great as he thought he was. 

Eliot’s music elevated his lyrics — without the music, Mike McCormick would never have approached anything like great. Margo’s listened to his solo stuff, that for some reason continues to do well. And it’s good, it’s fun enough, whatever. But it’s never as good as The Enchanters’ stuff was. 

But the point is, they’d needed someone like Mike, so virtue of necessity, all that. Margo’s never understood what Eliot saw in him that made him worth dating, but that had only really become her business when the fucker broke El’s heart. The truth, though, the one Eliot tried to deny, but they both knew was true, was that even at their very first meeting Mike didn’t fit with them. 

And, OK, fine, that wasn’t entirely necessary for work or dating. She and Eliot are both picky enough people that they long ago decided the deal-breaker was mere tolerance of anyone one of them gets serious about, because actual liking set the bar unreasonably high.

Except that Eliot had also never clicked with Josh, and given how Margo just finished writing out the last check to her divorce lawyer, well. She’s starting to think that anyone who doesn’t actually click with them both isn’t a keeper. And Mike had never clicked with her. She’d accepted him, but from day one — hell, from  _ hour one _ — something had rubbed her wrong. Some of it had been jealousy that her El wasn’t being kept to herself anymore, yes, Margo can admit that in hindsight. 

But not all of it. 

It’s too soon to tell, but Quentin Coldwater seems to be clicking with both of them. Ergo, if that continues, they should keep him in some capacity or another, Margo decides. She’ll have to keep an eye on the situation as it develops, see what happens. For right now, it’s good enough that Quentin is out of the bathroom fairly quickly, his hair pulled back in a sloppy man bun, his messenger bag already slung over his shoulder. 

“You don’t need to bring that with you on a breakfast run, you know,” Margo says, raising her eyebrows. 

“I know but I pretty much take it everywhere. I don’t even feel totally balanced without it,” Quentin says, ducking his head so that a loose bit of hair slides over his face. He smiles a little, tucking that piece back behind his ear. “That was a joke, but you know.” 

“Right,” Margo says, oddly tempted to ruffle his hair. “Hey, El! We’re getting breakfast, what do you want?” she calls over her shoulder. Eliot doesn’t respond except to wave a hand at her, not even looking up from his paper. He pauses, shakes his head and taps a key on the electric keyboard, growls at either the page or the note and starts again.

“Did… that mean something?” Quentin asks, leaning into Margo’s space a little to ask it, and when she looks over he’s got a conspiratorial little grin on his face. Margo snorts and grabs his wrist, towing him out the door. 

“OK, Coldwater,” she says. “Yes, it did mean something, or at least I already know what Eliot eats from the café in question, so it counts. Also, smart-ass.” 

“I get the feeling you guys like that though?” 

“Only to a point,” Margo says, narrowing her eyes at him. Quentin shrugs but doesn’t seem to take her too seriously, which at the moment is a good thing. If she ever really wants to put the fear of God into him that will be another matter, but for now… For now, it’s more fun if he goes along with it. 

“So…” she says as they head down the street. “Fillory fanfiction, huh?” 

“Oh God,” Quentin groans. “Look, it’s not that I’m ashamed of it, because I’m really honestly not, but I will say that it’s kinda embarrassing to be caught out on it by, you know. People I just met.” 

“I mean, the stories are pretty good. We listened to the podfics — you know you’ve made it when more than half of your stories get podfics, by the way — but I’ve been known to decompress with a good fic when there’s time for it.” 

Quentin actually stops, staring wide-eyed at her, which Margo will admit was part of the reason she said it. She knows she doesn’t look like the nerdy type, it was one of the goals of her high school career to wipe clean any traces of nerdery from her outward persona. But she enjoys revealing it at the right time. This is definitely the right time to tell Quentin — she is very much enjoying their new boy’s shock. And it’s only going to get better.

“What - you - really?” Quentin stammers. 

“Yes, me, really. Now come on, we’re disrupting the flow of traffic. Actually,” she says, looping their arms and getting them moving again, “I was a big fan of the Fillory books growing up, and the fic is some of my favorite mental comfort food. I wanted to be Ambassador to the Fillorian Outer Islands when I was a kid, you know. In fact…” 

She grins at him, all mischief, and Quentin says, “I have a feeling I should be worried about that grin.” 

“Oh, you absolutely should be. I am HighKingBitch, FillorianKnight,” she tells him triumphantly, because the two of them have been chatting off and on via Tumblr DM for three years. 

It all started when they’d had a 100-comment thread on one of his fics discussing the only vaguely implied in the books fact that the Fillorian kings and queens could each have a husband and a wife. That was mostly because the story in question had involved Quentin’s original character High King and secondary king discovering that they could marry each other despite the High King’s wife, who he had married for political reasons. She’d been the leader of a rebel movement against the Dark King, and their marriage was part of the truce made between the Children of Earth and native Fillorians to overthrow the bad guy. 

It had been a pretty good story, actually, but even if it had been horrible, reading it was worth it for the way Quentin goes tomato red and starry eyed all at the same time. “Wait, that was you? Oh my God, that’s really cool, I - wow. I can’t — I’ve wanted to meet you in person since — wait.” 

Quentin stops, blinks. “How did I not realize — you did my podfics! How did I not recognize your voice?” 

“Oh, well, I edit the shit out of that, keeps my editing skills sharp between freelance jobs. Eliot laughs at me, but I get him to come up with those little musical intros he does to keep  _ his  _ skills sharp now that he spends most of his time tweaking existing shit for cover albums.” 

Telling him all this is even more fun than she’d thought, honestly, even if it does mean she has to tow him along the sidewalk. “How do you think I managed to have so many different voices, if I wasn’t editing that stuff to hell and back? I do decent mimicry, but not that good, honey. Although I have some ideas for  _ And No One Knows Yet,  _ which I didn’t do yet, but I am absolutely going to now.” 

_ And No One Knows Yet _ being the one with the huge comment thread. Margo hadn’t done it because of all the original characters being harder to find voices for, but she has ideas now. 

Sweet little King Tristan needs to sound like Quentin, for one example. High King Alexander… She’s kind of thinking about Eliot, although that will probably kill Quentin and Eliot will very possibly kill her. It might be worth it, really.

They make it to the coffee shop and Margo takes care of her order and Eliot’s — the latter of which makes Quentin’s eyebrows go up when he hears the coffee order. “I’m sure that tastes fantastic but how does he not end up on a sugar rush after that?” he asks once he’s ordered his own breakfast sandwich and a coffee with vanilla and Irish cream. 

“I mean, he does but that’s kind of the point, it’s his go-to coffee option when he’s in crunch time,” Margo explains, and because Quentin’s brought his messenger bag, she has him put it to use for the box of assorted muffins she got, so that they have those to snack on over the course of the day. Hey, guys ask girls to hold shit in their purses all the time, in Margo’s opinion it’s only fair to do things the other way around. 

“We’re on a deadline, so he’s gonna want to power right through it,” she continues as a very helpful stranger holds the door for them to leave. “Back in the day, we’d use more illicit substances for that kind of thing, but we’re both better at that now. Caffeine, sugar, and alcohol are the only things we go for these days. Also, access is harder than it used to be, which definitely helps us behave.” 

If this works out, access to whatever the fuck they want won’t really be a problem anymore, but Margo doesn’t think it will be a problem. She and Eliot have both come too far together to fuck it up now. 

“I mean, most shit is too much of a risk with my antidepressants, so I’ve, like… never tried much?” Quentin says with a shrug as they head back down the sidewalk. “Also, I spent most of my time with Alice and Jules, it wasn’t really either of their things, you know?” 

“Right. Julia’s your best friend and Alice is her wife?” Margo asks, trying to remember what he’d said on the subject. 

“Yeah. Alice and I dated last year of high school, first year of college, it didn’t work out, and then they hit it off better than we did, so, you know.” 

There’s definitely more to that story — in fact Margo knows there’s more to that story because while Quentin was on their terrace filling Julia in on where he’d disappeared to last night, Eliot had told her a little about it. 

_ “I told him about Mike, Bambi. I don’t know why, he just — he asked, and suddenly there I was pouring my heart out with his big brown eyes staring at me. And then he tells me about how his girlfriend left him for his best friend, and he ended up best man at their damn wedding last year, like who does that?” _

That sounds miserable, and Margo tries to imagine a universe where she’d ever have the grace to do the same thing. She comes up empty, which makes her think Quentin must really care about both of them. Or he’s just a much nicer person. Probably both of those things are true, really. “And now the three of you run a bookstore,” is all that she says out loud, though. 

“Yep,” Quentin says. “Hence my very large collection of book fandom t-shirts. It seemed appropriate.” 

Margo has to laugh. “OK, I can see that. What is that one today?” she asks, nodding toward the red shirt with the golden lion on it. “Because at first I thought it was House Lannister, but it doesn’t look quite right for that. Or for Gryffindor, they’re both pretty distinctive.” 

“Oh! Alanna the Lioness, she’s a lady knight in this series of books called Song of the Lioness, they’re by Tamora Pierce. Actually, the shirt I was wearing the first time I came over was also from a Pierce book, the sigil of Keladry of Mindelan, the second lady knight after Alanna. I have a ton of Pierce shirts — they were Jules’ favorite for most of our teenage years, so I sorta picked them up and then I loved them too. Not quite  _ Fillory  _ for me but I do a reread every year or two, they’re just really good books and kinda soothing even though some of the stories look at some darker shit.” 

Talk of Tamora Pierce and her two fictional universes gets them back to the apartment and through the unloading of food. “Watch this,” Margo says with a sly smile, picking up Eliot’s coffee and sailing over to where he’s still sitting bent over his work. Margo glances over to see Quentin watching, curious and a little amused, before she waves the cup in front of Eliot’s face. 

Immediately, his head snaps up, narrowly missing a collision with his coffee. “Wh — wait, where did the latte come from?” Eliot says blearily even as he makes grabby hands for the cup. Margo smirks as she hears Quentin try to muffle his giggles over in the kitchen. Eliot looks between them, making a face. “Are you two ganging up on me? Bambi, we’ve only had him a day and a half, you’re not allowed to corrupt him already.”

“I can corrupt whoever I wish. Anyway, I’ve known FillorianKnight for three years, I totally have the prior claim.” 

“His best friend told us he had every one of my CDs, which means I have the prior claim,” Eliot argues, then takes a long drink from his coffee cup. Margo glances at Quentin to see his eyes are following the line of Eliot’s throat which is… definitely interesting after the way he was looking at her at El’s show. 

No, no, bad idea. She misses sharing boys with El, but they need this one. Maybe after the song’s written. 

That’s when Quentin notices the newspaper on the counter and flinches hard enough he drops his sandwich. On the counter, luckily, so he can still eat it. “Hey, what’s up there?” Margo asks. 

“Oh, uh, it’s… it’s nothing,” Quentin mutters, crumpling up the page. Then he blinks down at the wad of paper. “Shit, uh, sorry, one of you was probably still waiting to read that, I didn’t — I — that is —” 

“Hey,” Eliot says in a soft voice, coming over and taking the paper ball from Quentin, tossing it in the trash. “Talk to us Q, because you’re being a little insane right now, and we kinda need you to be sane. What’s going on?”

“Um.” Quentin clears his throat, then reaches into the trash can to unroll the little ball. The woman on the page — a book review, it looks like - is unfamiliar, with bright red hair. “I… I know her.” 

And even just saying that simple sentence, he looks utterly miserable. Margo kind of wants to hug him, or more appropriately for her skill set, to find whoever is responsible for that reaction and hurt them. 

Shit. The damn boy is growing on her too, isn’t he?

  
  


<><><>

  
  


God, why is he such a useless asshole? If he’d just been able to ignore Poppy’s picture like a normal fucking person, then he wouldn’t now have Eliot and Margo — holy shit, this is even more embarrassing now that he knows it’s his oldest celebrity crush  _ and  _ his favorite fandom friend, what the actual fuck — staring at him with a combination of worry and exasperation. 

“OK, so, I already mentioned at least some of this to both of you but after Alice left me and ended up dating Julia I was… I did not take it well,” he explains. “I’d been — like — I was hospitalized twice in high school for depression shit, it wasn’t until the second semester of my last year of college that I finally really got on as even a keel as I’ll ever get. So I was really, really fucked up over the Alice and Julia thing, back in sophomore year of college. Which is not and never was their fault, I’m not saying it was.” 

“We didn’t think you were, Q,” Eliot says with a gentleness Quentin is still astonished that he possesses. It’s — this all still feels fucking unreal, like a romance novel he would write. Except for the part where this is not a romance, and he knows that, and even thinking about it that way is a really fucking bad idea. 

He clears his throat, tugging the hair tie off so that he can run a hand through his hair. “So, anyway, I didn’t take it well and I made some mistakes, fucked around with some people who were not good for me, like, at all. Guys and girls, I’m bisexual, but I was really kind of the stereotype of bisexuals will fuck anything with a pulse for that semester. Like, as much as an awkward nerd can manage to be that particular stereotype. Anyway.” 

“Anyway, who’s the redhead and am I gonna want to go punch her after this?” Margo prompts, and the offer of violence actually startles a laugh out of Quentin. 

“Um, that’s… No, probably not. So, Poppy Kline, she was in one of my writing classes, and we hit it off talking about dragons in fantasy literature. She has a real  _ Thing  _ for dragons, like every sex toy she owned was dragon themed, it was a little weird. Anyway, we hooked up for a while, until I found out she had a boyfriend… Well. Sort of. She was cheating on me with him — we weren’t dating, but we’d both said we weren’t seeing other people and would let each other know if we did for, like, safety reasons and shit - and it turned out he was cheating on his girlfriend with her. But he predated me, and also she knew about the girlfriend.” 

“That is… supremely twisted and fucked up,” Eliot says, “and I had a bad habit for a while of seducing people’s boyfriends, so if  _ I _ think it’s overkill…” He stops, making a face. “I mean, I was a dick back when I did that shit, and I don’t anymore, but still. Even at my worst, that’s more tangled than I’d have managed. If you don’t mind my asking though, if it wasn’t that serious, why are you still so fucked up about it? That was like a decade ago now, wasn’t it?”

Quentin, who remembers one particular encounter where Poppy pegged him while wearing nothing but a coat identical to the one Eliot wore in the first Enchanters music video, is really thinking he regrets this conversation, but having started it, he does need to finish it. “No, it. It wasn’t the break-up. It was what happened after. Like, OK, I cut things off, I went back to burying myself in schoolwork instead of fucking around… but then, six months later, Poppy gets published. Her first book.” 

He taps the crumpled newspaper page. “This is for the third in the series - The Dragonborn?” 

“Oh! I remember now,” Margo says. “They were this sudden huge hit, a cross between Game of Thrones and Anita Blake, which is… really kind of fucking impressive. But what was the big deal about the books?” 

Quentin makes a face. “I’m… in them. There’s this character, Jake, he’s a creative writing major who gets himself tangled up in the supernatural underworld. And the way she sums him up is… ‘he thought he was a hero because he knew all the tropes, but in the real world Jake was completely useless. And he couldn’t even redeem himself with his writing — he could mimic Tolkien or Chatwin, Herbert or Martin, but stripped of someone else’s literary clothes, he was a soulless, talentless imitation of a writer.’” 

God, he hates how the words are still burned into his memory. He hadn’t even  _ liked  _ Poppy all that much, he certainly hadn’t been in love with her or anything. So why the fuck can her stupid books affect him like this?

“Wait. How do you know this Jake guy was you?” Eliot asks. 

“Well, he looks like me, he’s got all my habits. I mean, I definitely use bits and pieces of people in my stories, that’s a thing that happens. It’s normal, most people I know do it, but she… I don’t know. Every time I pick up a pen or sit at my computer, it’s like I can still hear those words, in her fucking voice. And I got used to it enough to keep writing, like you said it’s been a decade but… But it still… Every time I see anything related to her or her work it all just comes flooding back.” He’s looking down at his hands on the counter, not wanting to see the pity or the scorn he’s sure they must feel. Because, God, he knows it’s pathetic, he really does. He just can’t shake it, is the thing. 

Then there’s a long arm wrapped around his shoulders, reeling him in. Quentin can’t do anything but lean into Eliot’s one-armed hug, though he does try not to cling too much when he hugs him back. “First off, I read enough of your work to know that’s bullshit, and she’s wrong about your writing, even with fanfic included. Second off, fuck her and the horse she rode in on. Or dragon, as the case may be.”

“Seriously, Q, she’s got no room to talk. One of her characters is pregnant with a dragon-human hybrid baby, which is just fucking creepy,” Margo says. “Anyway, the best thing to do with haters is to prove them wrong. Write a hit song.” 

“Somehow, I don’t think she’s going to care about a song,” Quentin says dryly, regretting it when Eliot lets him go and looks down his nose at him instead. 

“Oh, I see. You’re being one of those snobby bookworms, who thinks one kind of writing is better than another,” Eliot says archly, and suddenly Quentin can, can see him as a character in a fantasy novel, a king on his throne somewhere. Margo hops up on the counter, watching them with a wicked grin, and he can see the same of her, lounging on the throne next to Eliot’s, the two of them joint monarchs of all they survey. 

It — it’s really an image, one that makes his belly and his throat tighten, makes his face go hot with a blush. “No, that’s not —” 

“Hush, Coldwater,” Margo says, poking him in the arm.

“I guarantee you,” Eliot declares. “There is not a book in the world that can make you feel as good, as fast, as the opening chords, the first words, of your favorite song. Whatever that may be. So I say to you, sir, don’t be a literary snob. And let’s get this fucking song written, prove all our haters wrong. What do you say?” 

  
Well. What  _ can  _ he say to that except, “I think that sounds like a great idea.”


	2. and if i open my heart to you

The next few days are a blur of music and words on paper, Eliot’s singing and Margo’s laughing comments. Takeout and coffee — Quentin learns how both Eliot and Margo take it — and snacks, sleeping curled up on the couch under that really soft afghan. It’s intense and focused and Quentin’s fingers itch to draw as much as to write, so that there’s little sketches in the margins of his notebook. Images from the song and little half-finished studies of Eliot playing a chord, of Margo at her computer. 

“Hey, album art,” Eliot teases one night, somewhere around two in the morning. 

“It’s not that good, El,” Quentin argues. 

The next morning Eliot shows Margo, who laughs and says it just might do. Quentin only shakes his head at them both, but he’s blushing and grinning in spite of knowing they’re only joking. It’s nice, and he feels… comfortable with them in a way he never has. Alice and Julia never quite understood when Quentin got into one of his more creative focus moments, but that’s what these days are for all three of them. Halfway through Margo gets involved, beginning to test things on their home editing system setup, to figure out what will work. 

And then it’s the big day, Eliot having turned over his finished melody to Margo and crashing out for three hours. Quentin does the same, and Margo wakes them both up to hear the finished product.

“Guys, this sounds amazing,” Quentin says, standing in Eliot and Margo’s living room and listening with awe as the melody takes full shape over the speaker system. He’s gotten used to hearing bits and pieces of it picked out on Eliot’s piano or his guitar, or snippets as Margo mixes it all together. 

“You had doubts?” Eliot asks? 

“I — no, of course not,” Quentin says with a sheepish smile. “I just didn’t realize how good it was until I heard it all in one piece, you know?” 

“Yeah, Q, I know.” 

“OK, the praise is nice, but who’s singing this baby?” Margo cuts in, plonking down a microphone. “It’s supposed to be a duet for a man and a woman, but my range is pretty fucking different from Kady’s anyway so it really won’t matter who duets with Eliot as long as someone does. So if you want to be on the demo, Q, now’s the time to say so.” 

“Oh. God no. Like, really, I can’t sing to save my life,” Quentin says, shaking his head. “That’s why I kept having El test the lyrics when they needed to be sung aloud. I sound like a dying frog when I sing.” 

“OK,” Eliot says. “Then you get to do the intro for the demo, and then back off, so we can do the singing. That way you’re still on the recording.” He steps back with a flourish, so that Quentin can go up to the microphone and announce the name of the song, then close it out with, “Take one!”

He steps back then, letting Eliot and Margo take their positions on either side of the microphone. And here’s the thing. Quentin has heard both of them singing before, because he usually asked Eliot to test his lyrics, but half the time Eliot called Margo in as well. He said it helped his process to hear it in a different voice. 

So Quentin’s heard them. He’s also seen every music video and every live video that Eliot’s ever been in. That isn’t even counting the concert he went to when he was eighteen, as a present from his dad for graduating high school. It shouldn’t matter all that much to hear them singing now.

But it does matter. Because it’s his words they’re singing, and he knows them now. He only ever knew “HighKingBitch” in a fandom way, they didn’t talk about personal stuff. And Eliot Waugh had been a celebrity crush, someone to occasionally daydream about and to enjoy listening to, but not really a real person. 

And now… Now he knows that Eliot drinks lattes that are more sugar than coffee when he’s working because it gives him more energy. He knows that Margo only really likes lemon blueberry muffins, but plain blueberry is acceptable if that’s all they have. He’s spent the last five nights sleeping on their couch under an afghan that smells like Eliot’s aftershave and Margo’s perfume. The scents shouldn’t work together but somehow they do. 

He knows how it feels to have Margo’s arm looped in his when they go on a food run, or the warmth of Eliot’s arm around his shoulders. 

And they’re just—

Quentin saw Eliot perform with Mike McCormick. He’s watched every performance, listened to every CD, more times than they can count. They were good together, they had a charge, an energy that was magnetic. Now he knows that some of that was probably because they were lovers, though when Eliot came out after the duo broke up he would never say so outright. 

The point is, he saw Eliot sing professionally with Mike. And it was nothing, even at its best, to watching Eliot and Margo singing this song together. It’s — it’s not quite a love song, it’s sort of ambiguous that way on what it is and what it means, but they sing it like one. They sing it looking at each other with all the affection Eliot’s seen between them, in a million and one ways over just six days. Not even a full week, and he’s already seen more of them than almost anyone he’s ever known. 

The song isn’t a love song, but they’re making it one. Or — or maybe  _ he’s _ making it one. 

Because he looks at them, and he can’t imagine walking away after this. They probably won’t want him to stick around, he knows that. He does. But he knows now as he didn’t before that it is going to break his heart to walk away. Because watching them, said heart turns over in his chest. 

He doesn’t want to lose them. He thinks he’s falling in love with both of them. Which has never happened to him before. He doesn’t know what to do about it — well, no, he knows that he should do absolutely nothing about it, because they can never know how he feels. But he’s never felt like this before. He almost can’t breathe. And he understands, suddenly, that he wrote this song for them. About them. About Eliot ruffling his hair and Margo’s arm looped with his, about curling up on their couch under that soft afghan and half-awake hearing their voices. It’s about how in six days he already learned that when they don’t go out for coffee and make it in the kitchen instead, Margo likes her coffee with whole milk and honey, while Eliot likes his with half and half and precisely three spoonfuls of sugar. 

It’s about Margo’s smirks and Eliot’s eyes, it’s about fingers on piano keys and computer keys, creating music and refining it. And it’s about Quentin with them, how it feels to find words to meet their art halfway, and oh God, he’s so fucked, isn’t he?

“Q? Hey, Earth to Q,” Margo says, and Quentin blinks, realizing the song is done. 

“Oh. Sorry, my mind wandered for a second. That was amazing, guys.”  _ In more ways than you can ever know, for me at least, _ he adds silently. But really, this is just his fucking luck, isn’t it? He remembers his crush on Julia, his crush on James before he and Julia started dating and then jealousy eclipsed that. The crush on Alice that he tried to make a real relationship out of. There had been Caleb the junior counselor at summer camp when he was fifteen, the boy he’d lost his virginity to who then never wrote back after that summer. (Though, really, Caleb had been seventeen, what did Quentin expect?) Even Poppy, in her way. 

He’s always had shitty luck in this department, so why should anything change now?

“Well, let’s just hope Kady likes it,” Eliot says, and Quentin can  _ see  _ the flicker of nerves behind the lazy smile now. Fuck, he’s just so screwed. But there’s nothing he can do about it, and his time with them is almost up, so he resolves to just enjoy it. 

Quentin and Eliot head downstairs to wait for Margo, who is putting a few last-minute tweaks on the demo. “We can wait here,” Eliot says, but Margo glares at him. 

“You’ll both fret until you drive me nuts, now shoo! Wait downstairs, boys. I’ll be there soon, and we will be off to see Kady and Penny.” 

“Think he’ll glare at us less this time?” Eliot jokes as he fetches his coat. 

“Maybe? Who cares,” Margo says. 

A guy named Penny? The only guy named Penny Quentin’s ever known was a guy he went to college with, Julia’s boyfriend between James and Alice and also Quentin’s roommate in freshman year. The chances of it being the same person are slim to none, of course, but it’s just a funny little coincidence that they share a name.

Downstairs, Eliot proves Margo right when he starts pacing the lobby. Todd the doorman, who as far as Quentin has been able to tell has a serious case of hero-worship for Eliot and a huge crush on Margo, keeps his mouth shut. But Quentin finally catches hold of Eliot’s arm. “Hey, you’re gonna wear a hole in the floor. The song’s amazing, El. Really. Just because I can’t sing doesn’t mean I can’t tell when a song is good. And I’ve listened to some of Kady Orloff-Diaz’s stuff, remember I said I did?” 

“Yeah, to get a feel for something both she and I could sing,” Eliot says with a faint smile. 

“Exactly. What we’ve written fits you and her, and there is no reason for her not to like it. There is every reason for this to work out, OK?” 

“Q… You have no idea what’s riding on this. This is my last chance. Kady is my last chance —  _ our  _ only chance.” 

_ Wait, what?  _ “Wait, what?” All Quentin can think to ask is the words circling in his head, because Eliot’s talking like —.

“Oh,” Eliot says, face falling. “I just assumed you’d want to do this again. We work so well as a team, I was already thinking we’d do more music together. I can do original stuff again if you stick with me, more than brief instrumentals for Bambi’s podfics. You have no idea how much I’ve missed it, Q. I thought we had something here.” 

Impulsively, Quentin grabs Eliot’s hands, his heart pounding. “We do have something. Really. I didn’t — I didn’t want to presume you’d keep working with me, I figured that with one new success under your belt you, you’d have time to find a real professional,” he explains. “But I want to keep working with you, if you’ll have me.” 

“If I’ll have you — Q, you’re the best fucking thing that’s happened in  _ years _ , OK?” Eliot says, holding Quentin’s hands tightly. “I absolutely want to keep you around. Me and Bambi… We don’t like a lot of people. We can charm the pants off whoever the fuck we want but that’s not the same thing. We like you. And I still think you’re a born lyricist. So if this works out, hell yeah we’re keeping the team together, baby. Even if it doesn’t I hope—” 

“Even if it doesn’t,” Quentin says, stepping a little closer and looking up into Eliot’s eyes. “Even if it doesn’t, I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to. And it is going to work. You know how I know?” 

“No. Tell me, how do you know?” Eliot asks.

“I know because two weeks ago this conversation would be impossible. Then I offered to cover my cousin’s plant watering customers, and walked into the apartment of my favorite singer as a teenager. Who turned out to be an amazing guy, with an equally amazing best friend. And for some reason they like me, when most people find me annoying, and we worked together on this song that came out perfect. So I know this is going to work out. Trust me.”

Eliot stares down at him. “Where the hell did you come from, Quentin Coldwater?” he asks softly, tucking a bit of Quentin’s hair behind his ear. Quentin swallows against the sudden lump in his throat, his heart turning over once again. 

Oh no, he’s doomed. 

But he gets to stay, so there are worse fates.

“New Jersey,” he jokes weakly, because what else is there to do? They’re standing close enough that if Eliot leaned down a little it would be so easy to go up on tiptoe to kiss him. But Quentin knows he can’t do that. He just can’t, it wouldn’t be a good idea.

“Hey! Stop canoodling and let’s go!” Margo calls as she gets off the elevator. Quentin and Eliot both jump, stepping back. 

“Moment of truth,” Eliot says with a shaky smile, and the three of them head outside to take an Uber to the airport where Kady Orloff-Diaz is about to catch her private flight to Los Angeles for a slot on a night show. Margo did say which one but Quentin doesn’t remember. 

Upon arrival, he finds out that yes, in fact, the world really is that small, because the guy standing next to Kady Orloff-Diaz is  _ definitely _ Penny Adiyodi. “Coldwater? What the fuck are you doing here?” 

“He’s my lyricist,” Eliot says sharply as Margo hands the recording of their song over to Kady. “Do you have a problem with that?” 

“No, just didn’t expect to see my freshman year roommate on the tarmac today,” Penny says, then turns to Quentin. “How’s Julia?” he asks. 

“Good. She and Alice got married last year — I mean, you know that, obviously, they appreciated the gift you sent them,” Quentin says, shoving his hands in his pockets. He really hates small talk, and he knows Penny doesn’t much like it either, so thankfully they lapse into silence as Kady listens to the song. 

She’s silent for a moment after, and Quentin is reminded of Eliot “absorbing the music,” as he calls it. Then she nods once, flashing a quick grin. “We have a duet, Waugh,” she says, shaking Eliot’s hand, then Margo’s, and even Quentin’s. “Keep this one around, he does good work,” she adds. 

“Oh, we plan to,” Margo says, which makes Quentin look at her in surprise, only to get a wink in return.

As soon as the plane lifts off, Eliot turns to Margo with a delighted laugh, picking her up and spinning around. Quentin is content to watch them, laughing at how giddy they are. He’s happy too, but more about the idea of getting to stay around them, of not losing them. He likes writing lyrics more than he’d ever thought he would, but all writing is equally wonderful for him, and he wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else. 

The next moment, Eliot catches him up in a tight hug, and Quentin barely has a minute to hug back before he’s being spun around too. Then Margo pulls Eliot down by the tie into a firm kiss and that is just — Quentin knows he’s staring, he absolutely knows it, but they are fucking gorgeous in the setting sun and his fingers itch for his sketchbook. 

(That’s not the only body part reacting, but he focuses on that one because it’s much more harmless.) 

“Come here,” Margo says, taking Quentin’s face in her hands and planting a firm kiss on his lips, over too fast for Quentin to really respond. “Oh, honey, you look like I just clobbered you over the head.” 

“Our Q isn’t used to so much spontaneous affection,” Eliot laughs, slinging one arm each around both their shoulders and pressing a kiss first to Margo’s temple and then to Quentin’s. “Don’t worry, little Q, you’ll adjust. For now, why don’t we celebrate?” 

  
  


<><><>

  
  


They go out to a cute little bistro Margo’s been wanting to try, and at first everything is going perfectly. Of course it is — they fucking won— they are riding high on victory giddiness and a couple glasses of wine, what’s not to enjoy? “To our first success of many,” Eliot declares, lifting his glass in a toast.

“Damn right, baby,” Margo laughs, and she and Quentin clink their glasses against Eliot’s. Quentin doesn’t say anything, but he’s smiling big enough that his eyes are crinkled almost shut. It’s adorable. He really is cute, isn’t he? And he’s looking at her, looking at Eliot, like the two of them hung the fucking moon. 

It makes Margo’s heart trip a little, and she’s not sure what the fuck to do with that, so she pushes it aside to deal with later. They sit and talk sprawled over the booth, nibbling on appetizers and sipping wine. But as the place fills up, Margo watches Quentin’s eyes following someone behind her and Eliot’s backs, the smile dropping off his face as he goes pale. 

“Q? What’s wrong?” Margo asks even as Eliot reaches across the table, his fingers wrapping around Quentin’s wrist as if to calm him down. 

“Uh — Poppy,” Quentin says, looking down at his plate. “She just walked in.” 

Margo turns, and sure enough, there’s Poppy Kline, sitting with a date. Right. OK. “Come on,” Margo says, towing both of her boys into the men’s room. 

“Margo, you can’t be in here!” Quentin says, alarmed. 

“She can do what she wants, but gotta say, I’m curious as to what the plan is here,” Eliot says, eyeing Margo curiously. Margo waves a hand, nudging Quentin to sit on one of the toilets so that she can reach his face better. Hmm… She always carries a variety of sample size makeup and emergency hair stuff with her, but this is Quentin rather than Eliot, so she just uses the slightest bit of mousse to give his hair a more deliberately tousled look, and when he actually does just close his eyes for her without protest, she adds only the barest hint of eyeliner. 

“Bambi…” Eliot says as they both watch Quentin blink at his new reflection in the mirror. 

“Hush. Now, you’re going to go out there with us, and make Poppy Kline regret everything she ever did to you, right, Quentin?” 

“Um… OK, sure.” 

At first, it goes well. “Hi, Poppy,” Quentin says, with Eliot’s arm around his waist and Margo at his side. Poppy’s eyes go wide. 

“Quentin. Wow. You’re looking… a lot better.” 

“Yeah, I’m sure, after the last time you saw me and the stunt you pulled,” Quentin says. 

Poppy stands up, folding her arms. “Stunt? You should thank me. All I did was give you a good fuck or two. Not that you were all that good. Really, Quentin, tell me, what exactly did I do to you? Your little blonde friend came at me about my book, are you really so arrogant as to think I would write about you?”

“I - I -” Quentin tries to regain himself, it’s obvious, but after a moment he just shakes his head, pulls away from Eliot and Margo, and flees out the door. 

“Shit,” Eliot mutters, and follows him. Margo’s first instinct is to deal with the bill and get out of there, but as she’s turning away she hears Poppy laughing. 

“You should drop him before he gets dull and whiny, just a warning, because —” 

Margo doesn’t remember deciding to punch Poppy Kline. She doesn’t even exactly remember doing it. The next thing she knows, Poppy is on the floor and two of her knuckles are split. “Fuck you. We’re keeping him, and that was your fucking loss.”

And then she’s being ushered out while Eliot has to go back in to pay the bill. 

“I’m really sorry, holy shit,” Quentin says, but Margo covers his mouth before he can keep talking. His lips move for a moment under her palm, tickling her skin but also making her wonder about his lips elsewhere. Hmm…

Back at the apartment, Quentin insists on cleaning Margo’s scraped knuckles for her. His hair is falling out of the careful mussing she put it in, sliding down to spill over his eyes. She can see he’s biting his lip as he cleans her hand though, focused and guilty all at once. “Thanks for what you said. I — I’m sorry I couldn’t tell her off. I don’t know what came over me, I just…” 

“Hey, I’ve never been able to confront Mike,” Eliot says from where he’s sitting next to Quentin. He reaches out and squeezes Quentin’s shoulder. 

“And that’s what you boys have me for,” Margo says. “Good thing I like kicking ass. I’m just sorry I hit her cheek. I wanted to break her nose.” 

Quentin laughs a little, peeking up at her from behind his hair, and he’s just — this boy is theirs, just like she told Poppy Kline. He’s  _ theirs _ , and they’re keeping him, and… She looks at Eliot, who is watching them both with a mixture of softness and heat in his eyes. It’s been a long fucking time since they did this, but… 

Quentin looks down again and Margo takes the chance to raise her eyebrow at Eliot, tilt her head in an unspoken question. His face lights up and he nods, one hand moving to stroke over Quentin’s spine and then slip under his shirt. Quentin’s head comes up, eyes wide and lips slightly parted with surprise. 

And, well. Margo’s never going to get a better invitation, is she? So she leans in and kisses Quentin just as he’s about to ask what’s going on, kisses him quiet until he leans back on the couch, relaxing under her, and she can climb into his lap. She can feel Eliot’s hand on her back, steadying her, and she lifts her head to give him a quick, playful kiss. 

Sealing the agreement on their plan, she thinks, and when she looks down Quentin is watching them with wide eager eyes. He obviously likes the view, and who can blame him? “Your turn,” she tells Eliot, and leans back enough that he can bend down and kiss Quentin in turn, slow and deep. 

Now that is a damned good view of its own, but… “Why don’t we move this party to El’s room? He has the bigger bed.” 

So that’s what they do.

  
  


<><><>

  
  


For the first time in years, Eliot doesn’t actually want to do his show. He would much rather stay in bed with Quentin and Margo, but since that’s not possible, waking up to Quentin curled up against him and Margo on the far side of the bed, sunlight streaming in over them… Well. It’s far from the worst deal in the world. 

Eliot is singing to himself as he makes breakfast for them all, cheery little bits of songs thrown together into spontaneous medleys. 

“You’re in a good mood,” comes a teasing voice, and Eliot looks over his shoulder to see Margo padding out of the hallway wearing nothing but a t-shirt that is definitely not hers. 

“The Stark wolf looks good on you,” he teases, handing her a coffee mug since he’s in the way of her getting it for herself. 

“Everything looks good on me,” Margo says lazily as she fills her coffee cup. “So… this was not in the plan but I’m feeling pretty good about it. You?”

“It’s been a long time since we shared a man,” Eliot says cautiously. “But… this is different. Quentin isn’t a one-night-stand. He’s my new writing partner, our new music partner. He’s our friend. By which I mean, yeah, I’m feeling good but I’m also scared shitless,” he admits. “I don’t wanna fuck this up, Bambi.” 

Margo sighs and sips her coffee. “Yeah, no shit. I was thinking that too. Either we never do this again or we consider it part of the long-term thing we’re hoping to have. I really don’t think there’s any in-between. Baby Q’s not the casual type.” 

“I don’t… think I want it to be casual.” Years ago, Eliot would have had much more trouble saying all this. But years ago Margo hadn’t been by his side when he finally had a delayed breakdown over Mike’s betrayal, she hadn’t seen him hit rock-bottom and helped him back up again. So now saying it doesn’t seem so bad. It just seems like something he needs to say. 

“You’re in deeper than expected, huh?” Margo asks softly. Eliot nods. 

“I think so, yeah.” 

“Me too,” Margo admits. “How much more I’m not sure, but definitely invested. We’re gonna keep this one, in work and in bed. Sound like a good enough plan for now?” 

Eliot grins. “Sounds like an excellent plan for now.” 

“What’s an excellent plan?” Quentin is shuffling out of the bedroom now, in his boxers and a white undershirt that is definitely Eliot’s. Which is only fair, since Margo is wearing Quentin’s shirt. But while it may be fair, Eliot is also finding that it’s  _ unfairly  _ hot. Quentin is wearing his shirt, but the hickey on his neck, unless Eliot’s misremembering, is from Margo. That’s hot too, somehow, like it makes sense that this boy should belong to both of them and it should be obvious that he does. 

“You’re coming with us to the fair where Eliot’s got a concert tonight,” Margo declares. 

“Oh, OK,” Quentin says, looking down at himself. “Um, I’m out of the clothes I stuffed in a bag though, so I need to stop at my apartment first?” 

Eliot is tempted to offer to wash Quentin’s clothes for him, so that he’ll smell like their detergent, but honestly he’d rather have an excuse to get a glimpse of Quentin’s apartment. So he just says, “We’ll go there first, then drive from your place.” 

Quentin blinks, eyes going a bit distant. “Yeah, OK, sure,” he says. “I was just trying to remember if the place is reasonably clean. Luckily it is,” he says with a smile. “I should probably wait to grab a shower till I’m there because, you know, clean clothes, will there be time for that?” 

“Tell you what, why don’t you go ahead home, and we’ll meet you there?” Margo suggests. “We can call the cab from your place, and we still have time to snoop.” 

“Margo, now you’ve ruined our sneaky master plan!” Eliot announces, mock-affronted. Quentin rolls his eyes, finishing off his omelet. 

“I mean. You can snoop but there’s not much to see, I don’t really have that much of a life.” 

Eliot is reasonably sure that’s true, but even so, when Quentin lets them in, all scrubbed pink with hair still damp, and apparently making an effort in a blue button-up instead of his usual fandom t-shirts and flannel, Eliot is very curious. “Go dry your hair properly,” he says, shooing Quentin off. 

“Fussy,” Quentin calls over his shoulder, but he’s going to do it — a moment later Eliot hears the low roar of a hair dryer — so Eliot calls that a win. Because it’s him, he starts in the kitchen and finds that Quentin’s coffee mugs and several of his glasses are also fandom-themed. 

“What a fucking nerd,” he says fondly, looking over to where Margo is scanning Quentin’s bookshelves. Most of the shelves are indeed books, but there’s a section devoted to DVDs instead. Eliot makes his way over there, but he doesn’t recognize a lot of the stuff aside from nerd shit so common even he’s heard of it. Some of it looks like TV shows he thinks he’s got bookmarked on one streaming site or another. And then the “Oh my God, look at this,” he says, not sure if he’s horrified or delighted to find a concert DVD for The Enchanters.

“I mean, we knew he was a big fan, thanks to his best friend’s big mouth,” Margo says, picking up a framed photo of Quentin with said best friend. He and Julia look about sixteen, and Eliot guesses they must be at a convention — in costume, even! It should be ridiculous and it certainly isn’t hot because, again, sixteen-year-old Quentin, Eliot is too old to find teenagers attractive. But it  _ is  _ painfully endearing.

So is Margo’s next find. The oldest bookshelf looks worn, like maybe Quentin inherited it from someone. Going up the side are lines in silver, like those paint pens you can buy in the drugstore. Next to each line, someone wrote a month and an age. It’s not Quentin’s handwriting but it’s similar enough that Eliot is willing to bet it’s one of his parents who did this. 

It’s sweet. The kind of thing that would never occur to his parents. They just wrote everyone’s name and birthdate in the fucking family Bible. 

“My dad did that,” Quentin says from behind them. His hair is dry now, falling soft around his face. Eliot’s glad he kept it down. “He liked measuring my height against it. You can’t see the other side since I had to tuck it in the corner, but his dad marked his height growing up on the other side. Only he cut the marks with a pocketknife.”

“So it’s a family tradition? That’s cute,” Margo says. “Come on, we’re gonna be late if we don’t get going.” 

Eliot drives, because of the three of them he’s the best at it. Margo tends to be a speed demon, and he’s not even sure if Quentin can drive. He’s not actually gotten around to asking yet. He probably should, at some point. But the truth is Eliot likes driving. A lifetime ago in Indiana, being behind the wheel was the only sense of freedom he’d ever had. These days, it’s just relaxing, in a weird way. 

The show is — well. It’s a show. Eliot likes performing, even at a tiny concert that consists of a weird mix between his old fans and people at the fair with nothing better to do. There are even teenagers he spots in some of the seats, which makes him feel really fucking old, holy shit. But even as part of him is grumbling about teenagers at his show and when did teenagers start looking like babies, more of him is aware of Margo and Quentin watching him off to the side. 

And if maybe he shows off a little more than usual, when he can see them leaning into each other and talking into each other’s ears? Well, honestly, who could blame him, when they look so damn cute together? 

<><><>

  
  


It’s a whim, when the three of them are wandering the fair after Eliot’s concert is over. El’s in the middle, one arm hooked around Margo’s and the other around Quentin’s. Quentin doesn’t mind at all — he’s still giddy, and he knows it, he feels like he’s floating on air. People are looking at them like they’re trying to figure out who’s dating who, and it makes Quentin smile to himself. 

He doesn’t know what they are, of course, what they’re doing. If they’re friends who are going to occasionally hook up, or if that was a one time thing. He cares, obviously, but he — it almost doesn’t matter. He just wants to stay with them, in whatever way they’ll have him. It’s the kind of thing that would sound pathetic if he said it out loud, but in his own head it just feels true. 

That being said, he would really like the opportunity to show off a little, and he gets it as they walk past a dart throwing booth, stuffed animals hanging from the top and off the sides, smaller prizes displayed along the inner walls. He pulls away from Eliot so he can dart in front of them both, grinning as he nods toward the booth. “So, uh, which ones do you guys want?” 

“Are you offering to win us stuffed animals?” Margo asks, raising her eyebrows. She doesn’t sound impressed, and maybe that should make Quentin back off, but he’s — he’s starting to get these two, all right? And there’s a gleam in Margo’s eyes, and a softness to Eliot’s smirk, and both of those things tell him to keep going with this idea. 

“I mean, I wanna throw some darts, but they do have stuffed animals. So do you guys want some?” 

“Hey, if you’re offering, I want that unicorn,” Margo says, pointing to one of the bigger ones. Of course she does. But that’s all right, Quentin can do that. 

“Hmm… Get me a penguin,” Eliot decides after a moment, also picking one of the bigger ones. 

“A penguin?” Margo asks. 

“What? He’s wearing a suit, I love him already, and our boy Q here is gonna win him for me, so I can cuddle him and you can hug your unicorn on the days we don’t have a Q to cuddle.” 

OK, now, that is just not fair, Quentin set this up to show off and now he’s blushing like a tomato. Again. He clears his throat and takes a second before turning to the man running the booth, handing over fifteen dollars for ten darts. Quentin’s pretty sure that’s a ripoff for most people, but reasonable spending is hardly the point here. 

He needs eight good throws, so he fumbles the first one for show, the second one nets him a cheap costume ring as a prize, but nothing more than that. “Aw, Q, come on, you can do better than that, can’t you?” Margo teases from behind him. Quentin looks over his shoulder and winks at them, playing with the dart in his hand. He slides it up his sleeve, then back down to his fingers again —

Then turns back on his heel and —

Wham. Wham, wham, wham, eight times his darts thud into the tiny balloons highest up, the hardest ones to hit that win the best prizes. Triumphantly, he turns back around with two big plushies in his arms, a unicorn and a penguin just like he promised. Eliot takes his and hugs it right there, grinning at Quentin over the penguin’s head, while Margo holds hers at arms’ length and inspects it like she’s judging it at a horse fair. 

“Not bad, Coldwater,” she drawls after a moment. “What are you gonna do with the ring?” 

Actually, he’d initially planned to throw it out, but now he reconsiders. It really is a cheap ring - it looks like silver but it’ll probably turn his finger green within days. Still, there’s a charm to it and the little blue stone shaped like a star. So instead of throwing it away, he pops open the little plastic bubble and slides it onto his right ring finger. 

“How’s this?” he asks, holding up his right hand and wiggling his fingers. 

Eliot shifts his penguin so he’s holding it in one arm and grabs Quentin’s hand, kissing his fingers. “I think it looks perfect. Where’d you learn to aim like that?” 

“Well,” Quentin says as they start walking again, “you’ve seen me with a deck of cards. When I was in college, one of my roommates said that someone as good as sleight of hand as I was would probably have damn good hand eye coordination for most other things too. So he towed me along to pub quizzes, and after they were done, he had me playing darts. I got good at it.”

“I’ll say,” Margo says. “So, do you cheat at poker?” 

“I cheat at any card game I play, if I feel like it,” Quentin admits. “Not all the time, and not, you know, playing Go Fish with my cousins’ kids or shit like that. Although I do teach them card tricks.” 

“Of course you do,” Eliot says. “Do you teach them how to cheat, too?” 

“Kind of hard to cheat at Go Fish, Eliot, but occasionally I show the older ones a thing or two. I’m the youngest cousin so some of my older cousins’ kids are almost teenagers now. Which is mildly terrifying if I think about it for too long.” 

“Don’t look at me, I haven’t seen a single member of my family except Patrick since I was barely eighteen, and Pat’s a year younger than me with no kids,” Eliot says lightly. 

“Only child of only children,” Margo adds with a shrug when Quentin looks at her. “I haven’t spent any time around kids since I was one. Wait, no, that’s a lie. My ex-husband had nieces and nephews who were definitely more pleasant company than the adult in-laws. Kids say some crazy shit, but they don’t usually ask in increasingly pointed terms when you’re going to settle down and start popping the babies out.” 

All Quentin knows about Margo’s ex-husband is that his name is Josh and Eliot never liked him much. It hadn’t seemed relevant, and though maybe he should think differently now, it doesn’t. It — if this became a lasting thing under a circumstance where a kid was involved it would matter, but as it stands, Quentin figures no matter what happens it’s still irrelevant.

“In my case I’m avoiding the ‘when are you going to bring someone around for us to meet?’ question,” he says with a little laugh. Then he pictures bringing Eliot and Margo to his aunt’s yearly Christmas party at her house outside Philadelphia, and he’s torn between the urge to laugh at the wild mismatch of the image and a sudden desperate longing for it, however ridiculous it would be in practice. 

But, as it turns out, meeting some of his family — or being reintroduced, in a new context — is on the cards. Quentin’s phone buzzes with a missed text from Julia, reminding him that he’s supposed to come over today. And he’s on the other side of the city. Shit. “Oh crap, I forgot I’m supposed to go to Jules and Alice’s place for dinner tonight — they wanted to hear how everything went. I, um…” He doesn’t want this to end yet, and it’s a ridiculous idea but —.

“Do you guys want to come? If, if we’re sticking together I’d really like them to meet you in a better way?” 

Eliot and Margo look at each other, and then back at Quentin, who gives them his best hopeful look. “Please?” 

“Oh my God. Stop with the puppy eyes, Coldwater,” Eliot says, covering his eyes as if he can’t stand the power of them any longer. “We can play nice with the best friends, can’t we, Bambi?” 

“I guess we can, for a few hours,” Margo decides after a moment, sounding dramatically put upon. 

It is awkward at first. There’s no way it could be anything else, and Quentin realizes that. Alice and Julia find this whole situation bewildering at best and concerning at worst, and he knows neither of them like the way Eliot and Margo — particularly Eliot — just swooped in and claimed him. He’s not sure, either, how they’re going to take the news that Quentin is going to keep working with Eliot and Margo on more music. After all, he does have a prior work commitment. 

The truth is that Alice and Julia run more of the bookstore than Quentin does, but he’s still part of it. He probably should have told them about the change in plans before he told Eliot he could stay on as a lyricist, but what’s done is done. Also, he doesn’t think Alice or Julia will be surprised, based on the comments they’ve both made during their brief phone conversations. 

Still, it occurs to him as he walks inside the familiar loft with Eliot and Margo that he probably could have planned this better. He did text, at least, so that he wasn’t springing the fact of two more mouths to feed on them, but they called out anyway so it’s just a spread of food from the local Mexican place. 

But maybe he didn’t need to worry too much. Eliot and Margo are at their most charming, while Alice and Julia have clearly decided to reserve judgment and be nice in the meantime. That’s a relief for Quentin… until Julia tows him into the kitchen because he makes the best coffee. 

“I mean, she’s right,” Margo says when Quentin grumbles, and Eliot just grins at him. Alice is smirking. So Quentin rolls his eyes and goes to make coffee with a huffed sigh, pretending to be annoyed more than actually feeling it. 

“OK,” Julia says as she gets the box of various flavor cupcakes she bought out of the fridge. “Which one of them did you sleep with?” 

“I — um — both of them?” Quentin says, resigned as he fiddles with the cheap ring on his finger. He watches the reactions cross Julia’s face one after the other: shock, amusement, glee, and finally settling on a sort of amused fondness. But there’s concern there too, as she reaches over and smooths back a loose bit of his hair. 

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Q?” 

“No,” Quentin admits. “But I like them, Jules. I really, really like them. So it doesn’t matter if I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ll figure it out. They’re the first people I really — we both know Emily two years ago was a mistake, and Andrew was a bigger one. But this is… It’s different. It feels different. And I know it’s crazy, I’ve never tried poly anything and it’s a big risk, but… I want to try.” 

Julia sets down the box and pulls him into a hug. “Then you should try. I just want you to be careful. I hate the idea that they might think you’re… some kind of toy. That’s why I pulled you away so fast at The Armory that night — I didn’t like any of it and you know that. I still don’t like how fast this is all going.” 

Quentin thinks about when he’d told Eliot and Margo about Poppy, how Margo had insisted on confronting her. When Eliot had told him about Mike or when Margo had kissed him while he was fussing over her split knuckles. How Eliot had laughed and told Margo to share before he reeled Quentin in. 

Today, the way they’d both smiled at the silly stuffed animals he’d won for them. 

“I — I don’t think I’m a toy to them, Jules. I know how it’s looked but I think they’re just like that. Imperious, you know? They do it to each other too. I don’t think it says anything about me, not really, or about how they see me. Eliot, he, he said I’m one of the best things that’s happened in years, and they are for me too. It’s quick, I know that it’s all happened really fucking fast, but it feels right.” 

Julia steps back to look at him. She studies his face for a long time and Quentin isn’t sure what she’s looking for. Whatever it is though, she does seem to find it because she nods. “OK, Q. I trust you. Just be careful.”

“I will, I promise,” Quentin says, even though he’s not actually sure he knows  _ how  _ to be careful with Eliot and Margo anymore. Julia’s right that he should be, he’s just not sure he can. But he promised, so he’ll try, at least. “Um, about the bookstore…” 

“Hey, writing lyrics isn’t a year-long process, is it?” Julia says with a shrug. “We’ll figure it out, Quentin. Play it by ear until we have a better sense of how things will work long term. But don’t worry, we will make it work if that’s what you want. You like some things with the store, but I think we all knew your heart wasn’t in it the way it is for this. And I don’t mean because you’re sleeping with them. I mean it’s obvious you just enjoy the writing.” 

“I do,” Quentin says. “Thanks, Jules.” 

“Hey. I’m supposed to have your back, remember?”

<><><>

  
  


It’s all going well, which Margo later reflects was probably a sign that she should have expected something to go wrong. But it is going well. They have three weeks of peace while Kady is over in England working with two of the other artists who are going to be on that duets album, so no pressure and no real worries. 

“If she was going to be out of the country, why did we only have six days to produce a song?” Quentin asks over breakfast one morning. 

“Probably something to do with the label, who knows? In this business, you do what you have to for the album sales. Sometimes that’s obeying stupid ass deadlines so that you don’t get in trouble with the producers,” Margo explains. Quentin frowns down at his eggs, but he doesn’t say what part of that information bugged him so Margo figures it’s nothing. 

Eliot and Quentin get back to writing music, but of course it’s not at the stage where they’re going to need her sound editing work. But listening to them bicker and plan out new songs, Eliot picking out notes on his keyboard and Quentin mumbling to himself as he tests out new lyrics, it feels like home in a way Margo can’t quite put words to. It’s nice background noise while she tackles the paperwork involved in being a manager. One with a new client, in fact, and once Quentin has done more songs with Eliot, she’s thinking they should lend him out occasionally, it’ll raise all their profiles. 

But that, she reminds herself, will come later. Right now, their days are spent working on projects that just might net Eliot a chance at a new album, if Margo does the legwork right and Eliot and Quentin produce enough songs. Both of these things are obviously going to happen, of course, they just have to keep trucking along. 

And at night, they end up in the same bed more often than not — of the three of them, Margo sometimes prefers to sleep alone afterwards, so she’s been known to leave the boys in Eliot’s bed before sprawling out in her own, but not always. Some nights she stays, and sometimes Quentin and Eliot come to her. Or sometimes just Quentin — rarely, but occasionally. 

It’s never been like this, even when she and Eliot shared a boy before. The unicorn Quentin won her sits on the chair in her bedroom, while Eliot’s is on his windowsill. Quentin, for his part, is still wearing that goofy cheap ring. 

Truthfully, it’s all a little too soft, isn’t it? Later, Margo feels like she absolutely should have seen the trouble coming, because things were just too soft, too easy. Too happy, maybe. Something was always bound to happen. 

That something is the new version of their song that Kady sends back. Even Margo is gritting her teeth when she hears it, a punk rock take on everything. That kind of stuff has its own merits, obviously, but the song Eliot and Quentin wrote was a ballad, slightly ethereal but sharper edged to fit in with Kady’s slower songs. This is… Making it like this butchers it, not because the style is bad but because it doesn’t fit this song. 

Margo sighs as the track ends, sharing a look with Eliot. They’re resigned; this is the business, after all. “I thought Kady would take it as it was, I wonder if maybe someone above her head is pushing for this,” she says. 

“Not that it matters, really,” Eliot says dryly, leaning back in his chair. 

“What do you mean, not that it matters?” Quentin says. He’d been about to sit back down when Margo started playing the altered song; now he’s standing frozen by the couch, his hands at his sides clenched into white-knuckled fists. “They ruined it. Isn’t there something we can do? We can — I know Penny, maybe if I talk to him he’ll talk to Kady and she’ll agree to go back to the way it was?” 

“No, Quentin, we’re not going to do that,” Eliot says with more patience than Margo’s feeling right now. Quentin is brand new to this, and the last thing they need is him making demands. She wouldn’t have expected it of him; up until now he’s been very aware of his newness, but maybe shit is starting to go to his head. He wouldn’t be the first, and he won’t be the last, but the timing is damned inconvenient.

“Why not?” Quentin demands. “Eliot, come on. Don’t tell me you actually want to sing it like that. I know you don’t. Nothing you’ve ever done — ” 

“Oh, you know? You’ve known me for a month and you listened to everything I’ve ever done, so you know what I want?” Eliot snaps, his own patience fraying. A part of Margo has a bad feeling when she sees Quentin’s eyes widen, but the truth is Eliot isn’t wrong here. 

“I — tell me I’m wrong then! Tell me you actually like that!” 

“Of course I don’t! But it doesn’t matter. This is the business. I don’t care. All I care about right now is having a chance to perform for a huge audience because that might get me back on my way.” 

“Well, you should care!” Quentin says. “Maybe that was the real problem with your solo album! Everyone could tell your heart wasn’t in it, and that’s why it crashed and burned!” 

Oh no.  _ No way in fucking hell. _ Eliot actually looks more shocked than hurt, but Margo is not about to let Quentin get away with that. “And maybe Jake really was more like you than you want to admit,” she says, and Quentin spins to look at her, eyes widening. 

“What? No — don’t — don’t say that.” 

“Margo…” Eliot says, wary but not trying to make her stop. Not that he can anyway. Margo remembers him after he worked his ass off trying to make that album into something decent. Remembers him just falling apart when it failed, the heartbreak over Mike and the shame of having fucked up his career almost destroying him. Quentin doesn’t get to throw that in Eliot’s face. She forgets that Quentin doesn’t know about that, and goes in for the kill.

“I’ll say what I want. That guy was a little shit, a snob who thought he knew best after five seconds in a world he knew nothing about, and you’re acting exactly the same way. So maybe Poppy Kline was right about you all along, Quentin Coldwater.” 

“I - I -” Quentin stares at them both for a long, long moment, brown eyes looking almost black in a dead white face. “OK,” he says, his voice gone horribly flat and blank. “OK. You’re right. I’m sorry. Obviously I’m — I’m not cut out for this. I’m — I won’t take up any more of your time. Not another second of it.” 

“Quentin, don’t be ridiculous. This happens, it’s just one song, we’re working on a dozen that we won’t have to change, just calm down. You can’t leave like this, we need —” Eliot starts to say, but stops when Quentin shakes his head. 

“No you don’t. Margo’s right. I don’t know anything. And this is your career, I shouldn’t be making demands. But I won’t be able to not do that if I’m part of it so — so I need to go.” And before Margo can say that is not what she’d meant, she’d been trying to shock Quentin out of his sudden shitty mood, Quentin actually runs out of the door. 

“Oh shit,” she says, looking at Eliot. He looks stricken. “El, I — what the fuck just happened?” 

“I don’t know,” Eliot says, voice shaking. “You weren’t wrong, Margo, I have to cooperate on this one, and he was pushing where he shouldn’t, but… but I think… I don’t think he’s coming back, is he?” 

No, that can’t be right. It can’t be that serious. Quentin will walk around for a while, cool off, calm down, and everything will be fine. They spent two hours in bed this morning trying out new positions and laughing when most of them didn’t work out. Quentin’s coming back, isn’t he? 

Except… he doesn’t. Quentin doesn’t come back, and Margo wants to be angry. She manages it for an entire day, but she keeps seeing Quentin’s pale face and his wide eyes. She spends the days in an apartment that’s still never silent, but the wordless melodies Eliot teases from his keyboard are all fucking horrible. Not in the sense that it’s bad music, but it’s all so fucking sad. Every moment of it. Except when it’s angry instead. 

She finds him sleeping with that stupid penguin twice, and then she catches herself dragging the unicorn into bed with her. 

And of all things, Quentin removed the link to her podfics from his fics. Such a little thing, but that’s the one that feels like a sucker punch. How the fuck did it all go so wrong, so fast?

She has to fix this. They have to fix this. There is no way — it can’t just have imploded so fast with no return. Margo refuses to believe that. She just needs to figure out what to do. She knows Eliot is planning another trip to Quentin’s job, hoping that meeting at The Book Nook again, on Quentin’s turf, will make him feel relaxed enough to listen. 

Margo hopes that will be enough, like it was last time, but if it isn’t, she’s got to come up with another plan. There’s got to be something they can do… 

Wait. There is something. 

So while Eliot leaves to go talk to Quentin, Margo FaceTimes Kady and Penny. She catches both of them, which is great, because it’s likely to help her plan. “Hey, so I got the new take on the song, but we really need to talk because I’ve got a situation on my end and you guys can help if you just work with me here, OK?” 

This is going to work. It has to.

  
  


<><><>

  
  


Eliot, for the record, is not exactly happy with Quentin. He can’t believe he left over something so small. He promised he’d stick around, he said he wouldn’t leave, but at the first fucking conflict he walked away like none of it mattered because of… what? His ideas of artistic integrity?

But then, Eliot also knows the thing that tipped it over from an argument they could have settled into something that made Quentin walk out was when Margo jumped in and threw Poppy Kline in Quentin’s face. She did it for him, because of what Quentin said about his solo album — actually, Quentin was right, Eliot  _ didn’t  _ care because he was a fucking wreck at the time, but the thing is, Quentin didn’t know that. Quentin doesn’t know that. Eliot told him about Mike but never told him just how bad it got. 

In fact, no one knows about it. Oh, there’s rumors, because Eliot did do a stint in rehab, but most people assume it was for drugs. Which it was, but it was also because he really did have a breakdown, rather than “breakdown” just being code for “drug addiction.” No no, in his case both were true. 

He’s not happy with Quentin. But he misses him so, so much. All the time. It was only a few weeks but Eliot got used to having him there. He misses him at the coffee maker, or curled up under the afghan on the couch. Obviously he misses having Quentin in bed with him and Margo, and while half the nights since the fight he and Margo sleep in either her bed or his, it’s not the same. 

(This is true for the obvious reason of Quentin missing from the space, two bodies where they were already getting used to three, but also, with it just the two of them all Eliot and Margo do is sleep. Sex between them, without a boy shared between them, is… a thing that has happened occasionally, and probably will again, but a very rare thing when Eliot is in a particular mood and Margo open to indulging it.)

Quentin was wrong to push the issue. It’s Eliot’s career, and Margo’s as his manager, that’s on the line here. Quentin won’t lose anything if this chance fizzles out, because he already had a job. But that’s the thing. He  _ is  _ new, and kind of naive. And he’d been right about the song being seriously fucked up by the style swap.

They just need to talk it out and everything will be fine. Eliot is sure of that. Or at least he tells himself so, all the way to The Book Nook. When he gets there, he’s relieved to see neither Alice nor Julia, because if they see him he knows he’ll never get to Quentin at all. So he asks the girl at the register if Quentin Coldwater is in. On being told that he is, Eliot grins. “Great, can you tell him to come down here? I really need to talk to him.” 

When Quentin comes down, he takes one look at Eliot and backs up a step. It stings more than Eliot would like to admit, but he goes over anyway. “Quentin,” he says, carefully not using Quentin’s nickname. “Can we talk?” 

“Yeah, sure.” Quentin leads him outside to where there’s a table clearly meant for staff lunch breaks, and they sit down. “Um, so, I’m not going to be here much longer. Just so you know. I wouldn’t want you to waste time coming by when there’s no reason,” Quentin says, not looking at Eliot. Which is probably a good thing, because Eliot feels like his blood has suddenly turned to ice, and he’s sure some of that must show on his face. 

“What do you mean?” he asks, forcing his voice to be steady. “Where are you going?” 

“Um, Philadelphia. We’re opening a second branch of the store and I’m going to run it. Have a fresh start, you know?” Quentin doesn’t sound excited by this at all, the attempt at cheer sounding painfully forced. 

“Quentin —” 

“Employees only back here. Quentin, you have a phone call.” 

Damn it. Eliot turns to see Julia Wicker standing there, arms folded. The death glare she’s giving him is impressive, and Eliot lives with Margo so for him to be impressed by a dirty look is saying a lot. Before he can say anything, Quentin flees and Julia stalks up to him. Eliot stands up but his height does not actually succeed in giving him an advantage. Not for this, not this time. 

“How dare you come back here? What do you want from him now?” Julia demands. “He doesn’t need you jerking him around.” 

Eliot swallows hard. “No. I guess he doesn’t,” he says tonelessly, and he walks away. So Quentin is really leaving, in spite of everything, and he won’t even hear Eliot out. So that really is the end of it, isn’t it? 

Except, two days later, Margo yanks his notepad out of his hands. “I talked to Kady the other day when you were over at The Book Nook. I told her everything, and she said she’d talk to her label, and she’d think it over.” 

“Think what over?” Eliot asks blankly. He knows it’s dumb to blame Kady for what happened, but he can’t help it, at least a little. He knows it’s the job, knows she would have had no way to know what the changes would set in motion, and yet...

“Changing the song back,” Margo says, cutting into Eliot’s thoughts. “She finally got back to me, and she confirmed, we can have the song back the way it was. I happen to know that Quentin is still coming to the show — I have a contact at the ticket office, and he confirmed that the three we reserved for him and Alice and Julia have been picked up, so they’re coming. He’ll hear the song as it’s supposed to be.” 

“And how is that supposed to fix anything now, Bambi? I told you, he’s leaving. He’s moving to Philadelphia,” Eliot reminds her. He’s tired, and he doesn’t want to get his hopes up. 

“You’re right. But there’s a part two to my plan, and with the two of them together, we’re going to get our boy back. I promise you that.” 

Eliot listens, and he’s skeptical, because pulling this off is going to involve overcoming the whole reason they got involved with Quentin to begin with. But… Just this once, maybe they can do this thing neither of them are any good at. Just once, and then… 

It can’t make things worse, so there’s that at least.

  
  


<><><>

  
  


He doesn’t really want to go to the concert, not after everything that happened when he fought with Margo and Eliot. But Alice and Julia both think that it will be good for him, that it’ll help him get some closure after everything. Quentin, honestly, is not convinced, but he figures it’s not going to make things worse to see Eliot on stage one last time. Even singing the song they wrote together, the lyrics that he wrote for them, for Eliot and Margo. Even without realizing it until he heard them sing it.

About them. About how he felt about them, so fast it  _ shouldn’t  _ have been real, but the way it hurts proves it _ was. _ Maybe that’s the good thing about it hurting. He knows it was real. But what is the fucking point. 

And this, this right here is why he needs closure. So he let Alice and Julia go down to Madison Square Garden with him, the three of them with the tickets Margo made sure they got, and they find their seats like everyone else. 

Maybe it will help. Maybe it’ll be cleansing or something, like the emotional equivalent of antiseptic. Hurts like hell, but it cleans out wounds so that they heal and don’t get infected. Maybe that’s what he’s here for. 

Kady is — she’s good. She’s fucking kickass, honestly. Quentin thought so when he was listening to her music to try and get a feel for words that would fit both her and Eliot, and he thinks it now. From the looks on Julia and Alice’s faces, he thinks they might find Kady Orloff-Diaz kickass in more ways than one. 

“I’d remind you that you’re married but I don’t think it counts when your wife is checking out the same hot lady,” Quentin teases Julia between songs, leaning over to speak quietly in her ear. “So instead I’ll point out that she’s dating your college era ex-boyfriend, and doesn’t that make eyeing her up kinda weird?” 

“I mean, I think it just proves that Penny continues to have excellent taste in women,” Julia laughs. 

And then Kady steps back up to the microphone. “OK, next up we have something pretty special, a brand-new, never before heard song by Eliot Waugh and Margo Hanson.” 

_ Wait, what? _ “Wait, what?” Quentin says in a horrible echo of that day in Eliot and Margo’s lobby, when Eliot said they wanted to keep him. His stomach feels like it’s being tied into elaborate sailors’ knots. They can’t — they wouldn’t be this cruel, would they?

_ “I absolutely want to keep you around. Me and Bambi… We don’t like a lot of people. We can charm the pants off whoever the fuck we want but that’s not the same thing. We like you. And I still think you’re a born lyricist. So if this works out, hell yeah we’re keeping the team together, baby. Even if it doesn’t I hope -” _

_ “Even if it doesn’t. Even if it doesn’t, I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to.” _

If only he’d realized then how soon him going somewhere would turn out to be exactly what Eliot and Margo would want. Now they’ve even erased him from the song he co-wrote. So much for the fucking team. 

“I — I can’t do this,” Quentin says hoarsely as Eliot comes out — as Eliot  _ and  _ Margo come out, what the fuck, Margo almost never performs, why would she be performing their song when that is supposed to be for Eliot and Kady, is designed for Eliot and Kady? 

He’d been about to get out of his seat, ready to flee the arena no matter how ridiculous and overdramatic it might be, but confusion keeps him glued to his seat as Eliot settles at the piano, Margo leaning against it, and Eliot plays the first chords of a tune —

A tune that Quentin doesn’t even recognize. 

That’s when the lyrics hit him, and he couldn’t have moved from his seat for anything in the world. Because these are not his lyrics, these are lyrics of a song that —

He wrote the lyrics to their other song for them. He doesn’t know what this song is called, but as he sits there and listens, he realizes that  _ they  _ wrote this song. Eliot and Margo, who hate writing lyrics, who aren’t good, usually, at writing lyrics. They wrote this song, _ and they wrote it for him _ . It, it’s all there, coffee and the late nights, they even managed to reference the freaking stuffed animals he won them. It’s an apology and maybe, maybe… a confession? Oh God, he hopes so.

He’s crying and it takes him until the melody is slowly fading out under Eliot’s careful hands, till Margo is stepping back from the microphone, for him to notice. He swipes at his eyes, hands shaking. 

“Q, oh my God,” Julia says, leaning over the armrest to give him a hug. As she lets go, Alice reaches around her to squeeze Quentin’s hand. “Q,” Julia says again. “You’ve gotta get backstage and talk to them. Now, right now!” 

“Oh my God, you’re right,” Quentin says, laughing helplessly in a way that sounds half like crying. Because he is still teary eyed, even as he scrambles to his feet and runs full tilt down the aisle to the stage. It’s not until he gets there and sees the security that he realizes, shit. He did not think this through. How the fuck is he going to get back there? 

That’s when he spots Penny. 

“Penny!” he calls, racing right up to the divider and waving, trying to get his attention. One of the guards pushes him back a little. 

“Hey, no one gets in. Go back to your seat.”

“No, man, it’s OK, he’s with me,” Penny says, coming up behind him. 

“Thank you,” Quentin says as the guard lets him by. “Penny, seriously, thank you. I appreciate this, I — ” 

“Yeah, yeah, Coldwater, I know. Those two told us all about their crazy plan to win you back, so I figured you might show up. You can’t stay here because I have other shit to do besides prove you can be back here. Come on, I’ll take you back to somewhere you can wait,” Penny says with that sort of grouchy kindness that Quentin remembers from college. Not that he’d seen a lot of it, but the brief moments when he had were the biggest reason he hadn’t tried to warn Jules off when she had dated Penny. 

It occurs to Quentin that they could only be more tangled together if they’d all gone to the same school somewhere, and if he were the type to believe in past lives he might think they did. (He is, kind of, the type to believe in alternate realities, but he also tends to figure that with his luck, his life would be bad in a lot of them, so he tries not to ponder it.)

Somewhere he can wait turns out to be the wing furthest away from the angry security guard, a place where Quentin can see the stage. Kady’s up there alone again for right now, and Quentin has no idea where Eliot and Margo are. A quick glance around helps him figure out where none of the people in the front row might see him, and he eases back into that spot where he can pace. He reaches into his pocket where he’d tucked the little ring he won at the fair. He’d planned to get rid of it after the concert, toss it into a fountain or something else symbolic like that. But now he takes it out and puts it back on his right ring finger. 

Then he keeps pacing.

What is he going to say? What can he say? He feels like he’s been sucker punched but in a good way, somehow. Like he was clobbered on the head by hope, which is a very weird concept and a weirder mental image, but how else is he supposed to describe it?

Oh God, he hopes he was supposed to hear that. That he was supposed to — he wants —

His frantic pacing and fretting is cut short by Kady’s voice speaking instead of singing again, louder back here than it is out in the seats. Quentin goes still as Kady announces a brand-new song, a duet with Eliot Waugh, written by Eliot Waugh and Quentin Coldwater. 

For a second even the tangle of feelings from Eliot and Margo’s song is completely washed away in a dazed sort of glee as Quentin thinks, holy shit, he helped create something that a packed house in Madison Square Garden is listening to, that he knows is being streamed somewhere because Margo talked for an hour at Eliot about that during breakfast one day while they were writing. 

Those are his words they’re singing, his words that tell his emotions every bit as clearly, and dizzily Quentin thinks it’s fitting because it’s like, like a — a call and response, or something. There is Eliot and Margo’s song for him, and now his song that he wrote for them. Their story so far, told in melody and lyrics before anyone in the world who cares to listen. And no one knows what’s behind what they’re hearing.

Not, Quentin thinks, that most people would care to know. That isn’t really the point. The point is that their hearts were poured out on a world stage, and it’s so fucking unreal he doesn’t even know where to start. He feels breathless, giddy and terrified all at once, because they have to know, don’t they? Eliot and Margo, they have to. Quentin managed not to say it outright that night they fought after the party, sure, but… He’s always been painfully obvious about everything so —

“There you are.”

Quentin spins around and they’re both there, Margo’s hair pulled back now instead of in the loose waves she’d had when she was singing, Eliot still flushed from being under the stage lights for his second performance. They look amazing, a matched set dressed in gold and oh God, Quentin really fucking loves them, doesn’t he? 

He doesn’t remember deciding to run, but he practically flies across the distance. It’s OK though, because they catch him, all but squishing him between them. “I missed you, I can’t believe — that song, holy shit —” Quentin says, babbling but unable to stop himself.

“It’s not bad,” Eliot says in his ear. “You could fix it though.” 

“Fix — no — God — it was perfect, it was everything, oh my God,” Quentin says, and Jesus Christ he’s still babbling, that’s actually kind of embarrassing except at this point he’s probably too giddy for anything to be embarrassing.

“OK, come on, let’s get back to the dressing rooms,” Margo says, disentangling herself from them and then grabbing Quentin’s hand to tow him along. Eliot has hold of Quentin’s other hand, so the three of them make a bit of a human chain as they head down the hall. As soon as the door shuts behind Eliot, Quentin finds himself pushed back against Eliot’s chest, his big hands resting on Quentin’s hips to steady him as Margo yanks him down into a fierce kiss. 

“Next time we have a fight, don’t leave on us,” she says, one hand curling in his hair just tight enough to hurt a little. Quentin welcomes it; the pull grounds him, keeps him here when he thinks giddiness might have made him float away otherwise. “I didn’t mean it, that bullshit about Poppy, but you were a little shit too. That doesn’t mean we don’t love you, OK?”

Quentin nods, blinking back his tears. “I know. I’m sorry. I — I’m so glad she turned it back — how did she turn it back?” 

Eliot laughs, low and warm and comforting in Quentin’s ear. “Margo told her it would help us win you back. And you already know Penny was helping us. Turns out they’re secretly romantic under those grumpy exteriors.” 

“Oh,” Quentin murmurs, leaning back against Eliot and closing his eyes. “I really am sorry too. I know how much you needed this and I shouldn’t have been a brat. I just… I got caught up. I didn’t mean to but sometimes it happens. Next time just, like, bop me with a pillow or something, remind me to recalibrate?” 

God, he sounds stupid, doesn’t he? But he doesn’t care, he doesn’t, he feels stunned and giddy and desperate all at once. And it makes them laugh, both of them, so it’s not too bad even if he does sound like an idiot. 

“I’ll keep that in mind. Open your eyes, Q,” Eliot says, and Quentin opens them only for a moment. He closes them again because Eliot is kissing him now, softer than Margo but just as deep, a claim every bit as strong. Just different. 

Quentin is  _ theirs _ . And maybe they’re his after all. 

They’re going to be a team, and they’re going to be together. He’s not stupid, he knows they’re going to have to talk about what happened, about how exactly they want this all to work. But this is a first step. This is a start. 

That’s all they need, for now.


	3. epilogue - way back into love

**One Year Later**

Sometimes Quentin still can’t believe his life. Today he woke up in London, because Eliot has a sold out concert here tonight, and the three of them weren’t about to split up for this first tour.    


Quentin probably won’t always come along on the future tours — he doesn’t really have a job here, Eliot and Margo call him their joint groupie, and well — he supposes that’s more or less true. 

He does have material for some new stories, so he works on those while they run around doing show related legwork that he can’t help with. 

But just now he’s standing on the patio of their hotel room, watching the early morning light — a sunny day, a rarity in London, so he’s always heard - spill over the city. They’ll have a couple extra days here because this is the last stop on the tour, and they already have plans to do touristy things. Quentin can finally send some cool pictures back to Julia and Alice that aren’t behind the scenes backstage stuff. First stop is absolutely going to be the Tower of London, because Quentin has always wanted to go there.

And they’ve come around, which is nice. In fact, Quentin would say that Alice and Julia were almost as won over by Eliot and Margo’s musical gesture as he was himself. It convinced them that El and Margo are sincere, anyway, which Julia in particular never thought they were until then. It’s still a little weird sometimes, they all come from such different worlds, but it’s a start, and Quentin… He’s starting to realize he’s happy, in a way he’s never been before. 

(Another small highlight of the past year has been seeing Poppy Kline’s latest book get ripped apart by the reviews, and also knowing that Mike McCormack’s newest album tanked. He probably shouldn’t enjoy those things, but he can’t seem to help it. He just tries not to be smug about it too often.)

“You are up way too early,” Eliot says from the doorway, and Quentin looks back over his shoulder to smile at him. Eliot is in one of his favorite robes, ones short enough to almost leave nothing to the imagination. He’s maddening like that, and Quentin tells him so often. Margo’s just as bad — her robes are sheer. 

She’s still in bed, though, he can see her through the other glass door. Awake and sitting up, hair a wild tumble, but clearly she’s refusing to get up just now. Quentin can’t blame her, really, but he laughs softly when she beckons imperiously. “I think we’re being summoned,” he says with a grin. 

“Of course we’re being summoned, Quentin, why do you think I came to get you? Now stop admiring the scenery and come back to bed, hmm? We have to be up and running in a couple hours.” 

“More sleep is just gonna make us groggy,” Quentin points out, but he’s already stepping forward to take Eliot’s outstretched hand. 

“When did I say sleep? I said come back to bed. Much better wake up call plans, Quentin, not more sleeping. Honestly, it’s like you don’t even know us.” 

Of course, that’s the opposite of the truth. In the past year, Quentin thinks he’s come to know Eliot and Margo more fully than he’s ever known anyone. A year of music and banter, of bickering and the occasional real argument. Of laughter, and more than anything, of love. 

Eliot’s tour is for his new album, his second solo attempt that all the critics say will wipe out any memory of his first. The new album is theirs though. Eliot’s music and Quentin’s lyrics, Margo’s editing skills to make them perfect. Sure, there’s a team at the label that tinkers with everything, but at the end of the day the songs are theirs, and this life is theirs. 

And they are just getting started.

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me at eidetictelekinetic.tumblr.com or @Fae_Boleyn on Twitter.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Don't Write Me Off (Just Yet) [Art]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26563573) by [ThoughtsThatAreWeird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThoughtsThatAreWeird/pseuds/ThoughtsThatAreWeird)




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